Ruby Throat
by hmmingbird
Summary: Love fell into his lap at the most inopportune moment. [Royai]
1. The Advent of Undoing

**Ruby Throat**

By : Hmmingbird

Disclaimer for all Chapters : I don't own FMA.

Author's Notes : Due to all the positive responses I received for "Harmless" I decided that perhaps I could tackle a bigger plotline. We'll just have to see if I overestimate myself. The only thing I can promise is that this story will definitely be another Royai because I'm fixated on that couple for some strange reason. The tone is sort of funnyhaha in the beginning, but I didn't want to start with anything too heavy.

More Author's Rambling : Just skip this part if you're not interested in specifics. This is tentatively set in either the manga or anime timeline sort of around/at/before the beginning of the series. Whichever you prefer. The whole story is kinda AU, but I tried to fit it into a spot where it could have _plausibly_ happened. Plausible being up for interpretation. I made some interesting characterization decisions that will become more apparent in the next chapters. I did it partially to confront personal experience and partially to put a different spin on Roy and Riza's relationship. I don't think I made anyone terribly OOC. Don't be frightened. As for the people of Amestris celebrating Christmas . . . uh . . . just go with it.

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**Prologue - The Advent of Undoing**

Jean Havoc had made many unwise decisions in his lifetime.

From the time he was twelve-years-old and his older brother's friend had casually offered him a smoke in the grubby old woodshed behind his house, he had been a champion of first-rate, grade A, altogether _stupid_ decisions. Telling his mother he wanted to join the military instead of going to college was a stupid decision. Introducing his last girlfriend to Roy Mustang was a stupid decision. But _this_ . . . This time he had outdone himself.

Today was the last workday before holiday leave began for Colonel Mustang and his subordinates, a very auspicious day for rule-bending and shenanigans that would be punished severely on any other day. As such, Falman, Breda and he had decided that it was incumbent upon them to cap off the year with a little harmless holiday mischief. Falman had only to remind them of the Colonel's stunt with the fake holiday bonuses last year, and it was collectively decided that he should be on the receiving end of this year's hilarity.

The plan they'd concocted had all the necessary elements for excitement. It was daring, it was dangerous, and above all, as Breda had already explained, it was _technically_ Mustang's fault he wasn't more punctual. Furthermore, it was _technically_ the best present they could give him, all things considered, and if the plan was going to succeed, someone was going to have to put their neck on the chopping block.

And that was how Lieutenant Havoc came to be standing on his commanding officer's desk with a roll of scotch tape accompanying the cigarette in his mouth and a sprig of something green clutched in his hands, preforming an act of stupidity that was the stuff of legends.

Cain Fury, the only one who had refused to take part in any sort of prank that involved a chopping block, literally or figuratively, gave him a look of purest horror when he realized what he was doing, "You guys! We're all going to be _disemboweled_!"

Falman gave him a pitying smile, "Stop being so dramatic. You aren't even an accomplice."

"Yes, but _she_ doesn't know that!"

Veto Falman was the actual mastermind behind the mechanics of the mistletoe scheme, but he lacked the necessary audacity and flare to carry out the execution. Havoc had no such qualms. He liked to push the buttons of authority, and in some cases, like now, he couldn't resist banging his fists on the buttons of authority. When he was younger that meant testing his mother's patience. Now, he tested Colonel Mustang's.

Lieutenant Hawkeye was an unfortunate, yet necessary casualty in today's escapade. Bringing her into the plot also added a delicious element of mortal peril, because she would not hesitate to shoot any or all of them for this dazzling breach of protocol.

"She's coming!" Breda hissed from his lookout post at the doorway.

Raw pandemonium ensued.

Havoc finished laying another strip of tape on his mistletoe masterpiece and leapt gracefully to the floor. Then there was a frantic flurry of motion at the Colonel's desk. The three culprits were pushing his swiveling grey chair back into place and arranging the papers and placards on his desk in a perfect imitation of their previous chaotic order. There was no time to argue about which side of the mess the black pencil sharpener had been on, so Breda finally swiped it and everyone made beelines for their respective seats.

By the time First Lieutenant Hawkeye stepped into the office with a sizable stack of paperwork under one arm and a steaming cup of coffee in hand, Falman, Breda, and Fury were innocently seated with their heads bowed over their work.

"Can I help you with those?" Havoc suddenly materialized in front of her and plucked the papers from her grasp.

She blinked at him and narrowed her eyes to slits, "What have you done?"

He had forgotten just how reminiscent of a butcher knife her eyes could become when she was suspicious. Suddenly the entire plan was seeming a teensy bit hazardous and not entirely thought out. He heard his own gulp ringing inside his head.

"N-nothing," He stammered like a panicked rabbit facing a Doberman and decided escape was the safest tactic. He scurried across the room to plop the paperwork on the Colonel's desk, "Honestly, can't I do something nice without you calling my motives into question?"

She decided not to answer him because arguing was childish, and there was work to be finished. She was more than positive something was afoot, and she also knew she could persuade any of them to spill the beans with a well-placed gun to the forehead, but she remained perfectly composed. They all knew better than to cross her, and that could only mean this was between them and the Colonel. At least it had better be.

Havoc's shoulders visibly relaxed when she didn't challenge him, a Christmas miracle if there ever was such a thing.

Instead, she stalked to her desk, aware of four pairs of nervous eyes trailing after her, but she paid them no more notice. She sipped her coffee and rummaged in the desk's lower drawers. The silence in the room was absolute when she produced two ivory handled dueling pistols and laid them out on her desktop. She didn't touch them after that. She just left them there, like two loaded, chrome desk ornaments, and began to sort through the neat pile of papers at the edge of her desk.

Within fifteen minutes she had finished all of her allotted paperwork, and none of her fellow officers had broken the thick silence. Apparently, her subtle threat had been successful, for the moment anyway. They had not yet realized that it was an empty one.

Mustang himself sauntered in at his usual hour, in an unusually festive mood. All of his subordinates had learned long ago that their Colonel could always be found in rare humor before a vacation, and conversely he would be as pissed as a wet cat upon his subsequent return to work. Today his mood bordered frighteningly on perky. He was actually humming under his breath as he hung his snow-dampened overcoat. And smiling. Not smirking. Smiling.

He wished all of his junior officers a very happy holiday season, with a grin that some could call half-crazed delirium. Then he sat down to attack his final stack of paperwork with rare gusto.

Falman exchanged a grin with Breda. Unlike his wily First Lieutenant, Mustang suspected nothing. Now, they waited for the opportune moment to spring the trap, like hunters at a foxhole. Lieutenant Hawkeye was flitting placidly about the office, filing and arranging every haphazard odd or end, still annoyingly busy. (Didn't that woman ever want to slack off, even a tiny bit?) Soon . . . very soon . . .

Fury cast a panicked glance at Havoc, but he smiled around the cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. His comrade had already spent the better part of the morning making it perfectly clear that he didn't want to be implicated when the jig was up. Usually, he wasn't quite so vehement when it came to innocuous pranks, but this time he believed that the other three were going to pay with their lives.

Havoc shook his head and placed his feet on the desk. Mustang wasn't as bad as he tried to make himself seem, and as for Hawkeye, she was a rather unpredictable creature. The more anyone tried to pin labels or patterns on her, the more she slipped through the fingers.

Currently, she was glaring at him menacingly from over an open cabinet, but she didn't say a word. He knew exactly why, but he didn't take his boots off the desk. She pursed her lips even as her sharp gaze moved back to the contents of the cabinet. She had clearly decided to cut him some holiday lenience today. He expelled a cloud of heavy smoke through his teeth.

As if they'd ever suspect Fury. He and the others could all point their fingers at him, but Fury had his tail tucked so far between his legs that their accusations would have no more weight than the smoke drifting lazily around the flourescent ceiling lights. It was such a pity that Fury was so meek. He could get away with so much if he ever chose a life of roguery.

Havoc put out his depleted cigarette and swallowed a small cough with a tight grimace. Nobody complained when he smoked in the office, but sometimes he almost wished someone would penalize him for his addiction. It colored his teeth a vellum off-white and boxed his abused windpipe, so even running a short distance could have him doubled over. There was nothing more demeaning than being helplessly married to his own killer, so most of the time he refused to dwell on that fact.

He traced meandering patterns in the ash residue left on the tray and surreptitiously watched Mustang watch his First Lieutenant.

If there was one thing Jean Havoc knew, it was that Mustang was completely oblivious to how often he watched his only female subordinate while he sat there idling his time away. His thoughts could be a million miles away on all sorts of other things, even the kinky things he'd like to do to his next date, but invariably his eyes seemed fastened to Riza Hawkeye with invisible staples. Mustang was also helplessly married to something that had the potential to be his downfall, but he did not yet realize the snare he'd stepped into.

He watched her, and she watched him.

Nobody was supposed to talk about that. That was poking a rabid wolf with a stick.

Finally, she prized a file worthy of the Colonel's attention and delivered it to his desk. They exchanged the cursory pleasantries, hands brushing together like timid kittens, and she moved to her customary place behind his desk, monitoring his work over his shoulder.

Havoc looked at Falman. Falman tipped up a corner of his mouth and raised an eyebrow. Breda waved the pilfered pencil sharper expectantly. Fury buried his face in his hands. Havoc cleared his throat theatrically.

"Hey, Chief?"

Roy looked up from the enforced tedium spread before him. There was something devious beneath Havoc's casual tone of voice, and he didn't like it.

"Yes, Lieutenant Havoc?" He asked cautiously.

"I think I left something of mine on your ceiling earlier."

Roy looked up, recognized what he was seeing, fit the pieces together in his mind, and froze. He opened his mouth spasmodically, like a fish gasping for air, but he never successfully produced a sound. Words were suddenly elusive things that kept dying in his throat.

Mistletoe.

Taped to his ceiling.

Above his desk.

Specifically, above Lieutenant Hawkeye and himself.

More worrisome than any of his initial consternation was the way his skin prickled irrationally when he noticed Hawkeye watching him with wide, spooked doe eyes. Against all of his better judgement, his eyes dropped to her mouth, and he instantly wished he hadn't looked. A treacherous spark of wanting flared up, but he extinguished it with vicious desperation. _No_. This desire belonged chained in the darkest corners of his mind, along with all of his other increasingly numerous yet decidedly inappropriate thoughts about her.

Havoc looked positively gleeful, and the others had all ignored their present occupations to listen furtively to their Colonel's reaction. He had an all-consuming urge to torch something . . . like the offending piece of mistletoe, or a certain subordinate named Jean Havoc . . . but that would probably lead to an inquiry so . . .

He straightened his paperwork decisively and returned to signing forms as if no interruption had occurred, "Cute, Lieutenant Havoc, very cute. I'll ask that you remove that before you leave this office today. I will not be so charitable if I return and find it still here."

Havoc was poised on the brink of a comeback, but he was promptly interrupted.

"Merry Christmas! I've brought presents for everyone!" The all-too-familiar bespectacled countenance of Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes poked around the doorframe, but on observing the spectacularly crumpled glower on Roy's face his grin faltered, "What have we got here?"

Apparently, Roy had been mistaken when he thought the situation couldn't possibly get any more embarrassing. His friend entered the office without further preamble, dragging what appeared to be a grocery bag filled with assorted misshapen bricks. He muttered a colorful curse under his breath, and cast a sidelong glance at Hawkeye. She appeared to be completely absorbed in scanning a packet of expense accounts.

"Colonel Mustang is refusing to participate in sacred Holiday tradition!" Breda pointed his new pencil sharpener accusingly.

Hughes assessed the situation, and his expression morphed into an irritating (yet not altogether unexpected) show of smug amusement, "The legendary ladykiller of Amestris can't even manage one peck on the cheek?"

"No way in Hell, Hughes" Roy growled like a baited animal. He did not show up for work this morning just so everyone could have fun at his expense. And he was more than a little terrified of giving in to temptation, "That would be extremely unprofessional. You're supposed to be my friend. You tell them!"

"Well, it _is_ a tradition."

Hawkeye was the one who jumped to his rescue. She rolled her eyes, put on a great show of annoyance, and thrust his personal mountain of paperwork right under his nose, much to his relief. The irony of that did not escape him.

"Enough." Her voice snapped like a whip, "Could everyone please stop distracting the Colonel with this nonsense?"

She was not feigning annoyance. She was exasperated, but not for the reasons stated.

She would never admit it, even to herself, but her pride was wounded by the Colonel's obvious disgust. She didn't expect him to want to kiss her, nor did she particularly want him to want to kiss her, at least not in front of an audience, but the words "No way in Hell" were brutal. Her fists twitched when she realized she was in the perfect position to smack him upside the head for that remark, and she had to put them in her pockets to restrain herself.

Hughes was looking at her quizzically. She didn't like that look. He was reading the embarrassment and injured vanity that she was desperate to conceal. And desperate was an understatement. Riza Hawkeye would rather point a gun to her temple and pull the trigger than admit she cared about her looks or anything people said about her.

How the _Hell_ did Hughes do that?

"Fine." He suddenly made up his mind about something and addressed Roy challengingly, "If you won't kiss her, I will."

Colonel Mustang almost had a mini heart attack at those words. Breda collapsed with a sickening thud, and Havoc was choking on the cigarette he'd swallowed, but nobody was paying them any attention. Surely Hughes hadn't actually said . . .

. . . He had indeed.

He seized her hand and raised his eyebrows playfully before planting a respectful kiss on her knuckles. She hadn't even begun to pull her had back when he whipped a package out of his grocery bag stash and slipped it into her palm with a wink, "Here's your Christmas present, Sugar. Gracia thought you might like it."

Hawkeye turned an interesting shade of--was that pink?--and accepted his offered gift. Roy glared from beneath beetled brows. Maes Hughes was probably the only man alive who could casually fling endearments like 'sugar' at his First Lieutenant and live to see another day. He suspected it was because the man thoroughly disconcerted her, and he knew Hughes was just infectiously friendly like that, but that didn't take the sting out of the sudden and inexplicable pang of jealousy that shot through him.

He also suspected he was bothered far more than she was by the innocent gesture, and he didn't like that. Where had his rational brain disappeared to? Why hadn't it even left a note saying when it would be back?

"Shesh Mustang, you look like someone died in here. Lighten up," Hughes was looming over him now and shoving a large box dressed in wrapping paper into his hands, "It's almost Christmas."

Mustang cultivated many satisfying thoughts that all involved some variation on ordering Maes Hughes to remove his sorry ass from his office at once. But he was already across the room distributing gifts and a copious amount of pictures of his daughter to the other officers.

He glanced at the woman standing serenely beside his desk to make sure everything was still alright between them. She met his eyes unflinchingly, just like she always did and graced him with a secretive smile that was so tiny he almost missed it. Yet, it was a smile meant for his eyes alone, and the intimacy was comforting.

"Mistletoe is poisonous, Sir," She informed him, "That's not conducive to the office environment. It should probably be disposed of immediately."

Effortlessly, she'd not only read his mind, but assuaged all doubts. This time, he actually considered kissing her for her brilliance.

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

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A/N : You'd be surprised how little people bother to look at the ceiling when they enter a room. I've had a similar prank played on me. Yay for the word spasmodically! It's definitely not used enough. 


	2. Quotable Reason

A/N : Thanks for all the support. I don't think I've ever gotten so many reviews in my life! When I checked my inbox the next day, I think I nearly died of happiness. Seriously. Sorry, I don't usually reply to reviews unless it's important, because I feel really, really stupid just saying "uh . . . thanks," but I see that this might be the courteous thing to do, so maybe I'll try it. I'm a little nervous about this chapter, because of certain plot developments at the end, but I guess all I can do is wait for your reactions. Wish I could do Riza's POV, but that would give away too much.

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**Chapter One - The Quotable Reason of Mr. Hughes**

"Five bucks says she'll turn you down before you can introduce yourself."

Havoc chomped down on his cigarette, nibbled like an enraged rabbit, and made a futile effort to glare ominously at Breda, "You think you are _so_ funny, Heymans. But you're not."

"I think he is," Hughes grinned and laid a five on the table, "I'm in. Mustang?"

Roy replied with a self-assured smirk lounging in the hammock of his lips, "I'll just watch. By and large, gambling is much more enjoyable as a spectator sport."

"Fine. But you're missing out on some good money my friend," Hughes turned to the next person at the table, even though he already knew her answer, "What about you, Hawkeye? Care to make a wager?"

The woman beside the Colonel raised a tawny eyebrow in a way that managed to effectively convey both disdain and reprehension, and resumed stirring her drink in silence. She did not approve. Roy was mindful of the dire and potentially fatal consequences he'd face if she knew he thought the pinched look on her face was almost cute. Actually, all of her expressions were rather fascinating studies of effortless artistry.

When had he become so easily entranced?

"Okay, then . . ." Hughes knew as well as anyone what that look meant, ". . . Falman?"

And so it went. His junior officers placed their bets on the outcome of Havoc's next run-in with the pretty waitress who had delivered their drinks, and Havoc smoked moodily to show his annoyance. His so called 'friends' had pounced on his obvious interest in the girl like a flock of vultures mobbing a carcass, and now their mockery had pulverized his already tremulous resolve. Christmas was going to be such a drag if he couldn't even find a girl to warm up to, but they showed him no mercy.

Mustang watched Hawkeye stir her drink. She was bored. He knew by the detached look in her eyes that she didn't find this noisy pizza bar any fun, and he also knew that she would have preferred to spend the evening in the company of a good book. She wouldn't have come if it wasn't the polite thing to do, but Hawkeye treated all unpleasant situations with patient determination, like a good soldier.

She was always cool to those around her, but ever since that morning, even before the fiasco with the mistletoe, there had been something different about her manner that suggested she was especially ill at ease. The others all took it for irritation or PMS, but he knew there was something else on her mind. All afternoon he'd watched her drag her teeth across her bottom lip in a rather distracted manner until it was flushed pink, and the action itself was extremely distracting to him. The end result of all this distraction was that neither the Colonel nor the First Lieutenant had been entirely coherent when Breda asked if they'd like to go somewhere after work to celebrate their leave.

Roy, having been caught off guard, found himself completely without a legitimate excuse to skip out on the festivities. Hawkeye had simply looked up from her paperwork and, for reasons unknown to him, agreed to take part, in a no nonsense tone that meant she was not fielding questions.

As a result, they had ended up here, drowning their lungs the cloying smells of baking grease and booze and inhaling the palpable taste of cigarettes and wood varnish. Their party of seven was crammed into one tiny booth like stuffed olives in a tin. She was beside him, but he made it a point to touch her as little as was humanly possible under the current circumstances. It had to be borderline sacrilegious to enjoy how spinetinglingly nice her thigh felt pressed against his, even clad in the standard, military-issued blue that always concealed the shape of said thighs. On par with laughing at a funeral or burning a flag. Forbidden.

The oily yellow lights dangling from the rafters panned down on the sweating ice cubes in her drink, making them glisten and shimmer. His eyes traced over the length of the straw to where it met her fingers, and his mind meditated lazily on one subject: What the smooth, lacquered surface of her nails would feel like.

She caught him watching her and held his eyes inquiringly. He both loved and hated that blond forelock of hers for obscuring part of her face.

"You're being very quiet," He told her, by way of an answer to her unspoken question, "Is something wrong?"

"I am always quiet, Sir," Was the unruffled reply.

True enough. Riza Hawkeye did not chit chat about the inconsequential workings of her mind, no matter how consequential they were to him. Her thoughts were enigmatic things that he could never discern even a fraction of. If there was a way to pin down just one for closer examination, he would have seized it with both hands.

So this time he asked her flat out, "What are you thinking about?"

She was momentarily taken aback. He could see it in the way, she abruptly stopped her ministrations with the straw, even though her face remained as impassive as it always was. Body language was almost always better than words when it came to reading her.

"A window," She replied vaguely.

"Huh?"

"Just a window at my grandfather's estate," She shrugged, "The ice reminded me of the stained glass."

Her mouth folded down at one corner. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and order her as her superior officer to tell him anything and everything that was upsetting her. But of course, he didn't. He wanted . . . . so many things.

He held up his own glass and nipped at the lip as an excuse for his mouth while he mulled over his next words. The glass contained an amber colored substance that was considerably more relaxing than her soda was, "You really needed this vacation didn't you, Lieutenant?"

She nodded thoughtfully, "Yes, I suppose I do, Sir."

She resumed stirring her drink, in slower, deliberate circles. He hummed into his glass before downing a gulp. Assorted bits of his subordinates' conversation buzzed in his ears, _". . . . . said it was only temporary! Temporary! Hah!"_

"Hey! Everybody look!" Hughes's excited whispers dragged him reluctantly back to lucidity, "Here comes the food! And Havoc's lady friend."

Havoc bristled, "Maes! I swear to God!"

Morbid curiosity prompted them both to look up at this. What Roy did not expect to see was Hughes looking directly at Hawkeye and him. He was positively beaming at them from across the table, and it was that outlandishly proud look he usually reserved solely for fluttery accounts of Elysia's antics.

What the Hell?

Salvation arrived in the form of a fresh, garlic-laden pizza landing on the table between them. All attention was immediately snagged by the appearing food, or in Havoc's case, the appearing waitress. She was a pretty little thing with long brown hair and large, ink-stain dark eyes. Havoc couldn't have looked more lovelorn if he consciously tried. Roy lunged for a piece of pizza while they were occupied with the developing drama and burned his fingers in the process, but the soft, cheesy prize he procured was worth the pain.

"Excuse me, Miss?" Havoc cleared his throat, "My name is Jean, and I was wondering . . ."

The waitress didn't even look at him, "Anyone need a refill?"

Breda wordlessly handed her his empty glass, and she departed. As soon as she was out of sight, the table erupted in laughter. Money changed hands over the table.

"Shut up," Havoc's ears reddened like ripe turnips, and he quickly stuffed a piece of pizza in his mouth.

When dinner wrapped up, Havoc was, a few drinks later, once again resolved to find the dark-eyed waitress and ask her out. Breda and Falman, sensing further humiliation was close at hand, chose to stay with their comrade for 'support'. The remaining four decided to get outside while it was still light out and investigate some of the shops, seeing as Colonel Mustang had yet to buy any gifts for anyone.

The walk on 31st street wasn't crowded that evening, but the cold was partially responsible for that. The open air was chill and flavorless compared with the smokey ambiance they had come from, and the sun was already hanging low and fat in the sky. Sparse scatters of people were rushing around in giant wool coats, scouring the shops and warehouses for last minute gifts. Occasionally, someone glanced curiously at the four officers out for a stroll, but most of them had more important errands.

Hawkeye fell into step beside him, but they didn't exchange conversation. Roy picked at his teeth with a plastic cocktail spear, and she stayed companionable and alert beside him, watching the people on the street, squabbling, conversing, fighting with ornery children and even one man in a felt cap wrestling with the giant evergreen he was trying to load into a cab. Nothing escaped her scrutiny.

Hughes prattled on and on to them about Elysia's latest letter to Santa, and Fury, who was quite unable to escape the speech, dutifully agreed with all of his assessments of his daughter's ingenuity, genius and beauty. Nobody could have gotten a word in edgewise, even if they wanted to.

Despite, Roy's present lack of presents, he elected to enter few of the stores they came to, and instead sat out front with Hughes while Hawkeye and Fury bought gifts. He still had at least three days to procrastinate, and he never went shopping (or did paperwork) unless it was a frantic necessity. He'd refined his indolence to an art form over the years, and it was nearing a point of pride.

Outside the last shop on the block Roy noticed a flock of collared doves purring amongst themselves on the sidewalk. Their dust-colored bodies were plumped up against the cold, and their tiny heads bobbed in a way that suggested they didn't think long or hard about anything. A chilly breeze that tugged at his hair and jacket didn't even phase them. Maes grinned and tossed them crumbs from a pizza crust he'd saved. The birds toddled over to pick at the offerings.

"You've been staring at Lieutenant Hawkeye all evening, Roy," He observed mildly, "More than you usually do, I should add."

Roy crossed his arms over his chest, "Stop feeding those pigeons or you're going to have a swarm."

"Roy . . ."

"Is it suddenly a crime to watch people?" Roy settled for practiced nonchalance to deflect his friend's queries, but despite his best efforts, his words still sounded just a tad defensive, "I watch her all the time. I'm a man, and she's got a lot of nice 'features'," He made a curvy shape in the air with his hands to accentuate the point.

Maes slapped his leg and guffawed so loudly that the doves around him scattered, "The ever observant flame alchemist," He waited for his laughter to subside to snorts, and then, much to Roy's irritation, doggedly pursued the point, "But seriously Roy, is that all? You looked like you wanted to stab me with the nearest pencil when I kissed her hand earlier. Made me want to join the witness protection program for a moment you did."

"Honestly . . ." He held out his hands, palms up, and watched the doves reform their ranks, cooing indignantly, "I don't know. Maybe I _do_ like her more than I should, but . . . . I don't know. Something about it doesn't seem very . . . . appropriate."

"Appropriate? Like how?" Maes tilted his head in confusion, and Roy was reminded absurdly of the stupid-looking doves at their feet.

Roy grasped for a word or two to string together. How could he explain the complicated gamut of worry, desire and fear that she'd torn open in him? How could he explain that, yes he cared for her, yes she was more than a subordinate to him, and yes she was pretty, but feeling anything beyond that couldn't be right because, because, because . . . Because dammit, he should be able to have one female officer under his command without wanting in her pants. He couldn't _possibly_ be that shallow.

Maes, ever perceptive and empathetic, hit pretty close to the mark, "You don't want to treat her any differently than the boys?"

"Well, yes, if you want to put it that way," He glanced around to make sure she and Fury were still inside the shop, "I mean, never, in all my life . . . . I've _never_ been just _friends_ with a woman. Why is that? I'm beginning to suspect that I'm a little sexist."

"Don't be stupid, Roy," Maes shook his head, "You're not sexist. The very fact that you are concerned about it is a good sign. You're just not as good with women as everybody thinks," He smirked, "Believe it or not, there's a difference between being a sexist pig and finding that you're really falling for someone. Who cares if she's a woman? What if you were attracted to Lieutenant Havoc?"

Roy made a face.

"I'm just using an example. Don't get your underwear in a bunch," Maes chuckled, "My point is, you wouldn't worry about sexism then, would you?"

"Well, yeah," He conceded reluctantly, "But it'd still be pretty damn weird for the rest of my subordinates. Not to mention a serious infraction of 'the rules'."

"Now you've got your priorities straight, Mustang," Maes smiled at him like a teacher, pleased that his student had finally grasped the point of the lesson, "Those rules and the effects on your mission and group dynamics are the real problems you are going to have to square with, if you decide you're in love with her. None of that sexism crap."

"Okay, okay . . . . Wait! What?" Roy's face turned from pale to ashen in record time, "L-love?"

"Yes, love," Maes laughed at his gaping friend, "Honestly, it's not a very scary word, Roy. I know you love her like a sister already. Hell, I know you'd die for her without a thought. Perhaps now, you are _finally_ beginning to realize that she's not exactly your sister. And let me tell you, she's not as stupid as you are. She's already figured that out . . ."

Roy snarled inarticulately and scuffed his feet on the ground. He made up his mind to tune his friend out for the moment, and looked dispassionately at the drooping sun. It was a bright orange flowerhead too heavy for the stalk, burning like his alchemy over the rooftops. Hughes was still jabbering profusely about interoffice relationships just to hear himself talk, and he didn't even pretend to listen.

His brain raced like a thoroughbred down a straight track. Damn Maes Hughes. Damn him for being so _sensible_. He made this big, huge _problem_ seem so simplistic that any five-year-old with half a brain could figure out the logical thing to do, and he made him feel like an idiot for his ambivalence. But even still . . . . even still . . . .

He hadn't even decided what he felt about her for one thing. Sure, Hughes could call it love, but for a while now, it had simply been something too great to wrap a definition around. Love implied certain amounts of this or that, cliched words, tenderness, and clear, cut and dry expectations. This _thing_, as he preferred to call it, was like an animal he could not tame. Harsh. Desperate. Frightening in its intensity. It was a beautiful beast, to be sure. But it was also a lethal beast that could tear him to pieces, and he was scared to let it out.

Thankfully, he was saved from his derailing train of thought when Hawkeye and Fury exited the shop, each lugging more bags. Hughes sprang up like a terrier on the scent to meet them on the walk and sniff out their purchases.

"Hey guys! Did you buy anything for me?" He tried to peer into Fury's bag, but the Master Sergeant, pulled back sharply.

"Stop looking!" He shrieked, "They still have to be wrapped!"

Hughes pouted, "Well, I'll be expecting something really nice for Elysia at the party. You are coming, right? It's at our house on Christmas Eve."

Fury sighed, "Yes, I already told you I'm coming," He glanced at the sun hovering on the rooftops, "It's getting late."

"Oh yes, I've got to get home before Gracia starts to wonder where I am," Hughes nodded, but suddenly turned on them sharply, "You two are expected to come too, you know. No ditching out," He reminded them, and then added with a slight snicker, "And I promise, all mistletoe will be in conspicuous and easily avoidable locations."

Roy could have sworn Fury had covered his mouth to contain a snort.

Hawkeye glared at Hughes, "Very funny Lieutenant Colonel. Keep that up and see if you get any presents from me."

"I don't believe it! Roy, she just made a joke!" Hughes turned to her with feigned concern, "Are you feeling alright Lieutenant? Perhaps this cold has addled your brains."

"Who said I was joking?" She growled icily.

"Aye," Hughes drew away, "This one bites. Good luck with her, my friend."

He skipped away before she could draw a hidden weapon, and Fury, seeing the dangerous look on her face, beat a hasty retreat as well. Roy waved to them and smiled fondly at her. Speaking of lethal animals . . .

"That was funny, Hawkeye. Mean, but very funny."

"He deserved it," She muttered.

Roy's laughter was as soft as a pillowcase. He doubted anyone but he had any idea Lieutenant Hawkeye even had a sense of humor, and a rather impish one at that. She bowed her head in embarrassment and started walking. He trotted to catch up.

They strolled aimlessly past the quaint gift shops that filled the remainder of 31st street, disinclined to enter any building that was garishly strung with colorful lights or an abundance of live trees. The bountiful conversation departed with Hughes, but he didn't mind the silence. It was much better, he mused, to walk with her than trudge home alone. Between them they shared the rhythm of their pace. Their footsteps beat in tandem on the slush-covered streets, and their shopping bags brushed against each other.

For a while it seemed no different from any other working day. They were in uniform. They were walking in silence, each nursing private thoughts that had no place on their lips. But then she turned to him suddenly, "Can we go into the candy shop there, Sir?"

"Got a sweet tooth, Lieutenant?"

"I want to by some black licorice for my grandfather," She smiled, close-lipped, secretively, and he found himself rather pleasantly astounded by her . . . her . . . something, "I always bring him some when I visit for Christmas."

It didn't even occur to him that her seldom given smiles, were often for him. Smiles were easy for him.

He gave her one then, "The General likes black licorice?"

"No," She shook her head, "My other Grandfather."

He recalled her pensive stupor earlier.

"The one with the window at the estate?"

She looked at him severely, trying to gauge if he was teasing her or not, "Yes, that one."

He spread his hands in a placating gesture, "Hey, I was just curious."

They wandered inside. A bell chimed as they crossed the threshold, and a variegated mix of sugary smells poured over his senses. He could swear he felt cavities forming in preparation. It was a small shop. Two of them could have easily fit end to end into the space of his office with room to spare, but thankfully, at this time of night, it was uncrowded.

She maneuvered her way through the appetizing displays of truffles and candied fruit with single-minded purpose, but he was distracted by a new delectable delight at every turn. Chocolate-covered almonds? Did those taste as good as they looked in that jar? Lollipops as big as his fist! He had to stop and watch as tiny old lady, selected one, and handed it with a doting smile to a little girl who was presumably a grandchild. That was a gargantuan mess in the making, and the candy was red besides. He nearly swiped it from the girl in horror.

By the time he caught up with Hawkeye again, she had already purchased a tin of licorice. She was standing by the counter just watching him, the way she always did when they were in a crowd, with the protective gaze of a lioness. A gun-wielding lioness. In anyone else, this habit would have been annoying to say the least, but he rather liked her eyes on him. Suddenly, he was hungry for something sweet.

On impulse, he bought a bag of ginger snaps, which he tore open the instant they left the store. Dusk had settled over the city, ominous black tickled with pulsing pink veins of dying sunlight. The first stars were flickering into existence, and all the street lamps were lit to illuminate the darkness. Their breaths clouded and mingled together above their heads, but the superfluous layers of uniform and their long, black overcoats kept them warm.

"And here I thought you'd gotten those for somebody," She eyed him as he popped a cookie into his mouth.

He shook his head and swallowed, "Hungry."

"You just ate," She admonished, but there was a slight wry humor plucking at the edges of her words.

"What exactly is your point Lieutenant?"

She didn't answer him, so he ate another cookie.

She didn't have a point, not exactly anyway. She'd stopped asking him why he bothered with Christmas long ago, and somehow, she'd learned the answer without him telling her. That was how it always worked between them.

Everybody knew Roy Mustang didn't believe in God. It was not a fact he tried to conceal, and he wasn't ashamed. But that made celebrating a Christian holiday like Christmas about as pointless pretending to read a book in a language he didn't understand. If anyone asked him about this curious idiosyncracy of his, he'd say he was in it for the presents, and nobody questioned selfishness as his motive, but the real reason was far less rational. He needed something to occupy his hands. Even if it was a book he'd never understand, he could at least amuse himself by flipping the pages, and occasionally, he came across a pretty picture to contemplate. Like a tinsel-covered tree, or a woman whose profile glowed like a halo in the lights.

He _knew_ basing a religion around Riza Hawkeye was sacrilege of the worst kind, and he rather liked it.

A boy walking a thick-coated sheepdog passed them, or attempted to pass them. The dog had other ideas. He whiffled affectionately at Hawkeye's empty hands, and once he'd examined her, turned with even more interest to the bag of cookies in Roy's hands. The horrified kid recognized them as officers of the military and was quick to stammer an apology.

"Sorry, Sirs," The scrawny owner marginally succeeded in pulling the large dog away, "He gets like that with strangers sometimes."

"It's alright, kid," Roy grinned and scratched the dog behind the ears, "He's not a problem. Don't worry about it."

The dog was already turning to Hawkeye again, pressing his cold nose into her palms and stepping all over her feet. His feathered tail thumped wildly against her shopping bags, creating a sound like a timpani being struck. Roy watched in wide-eyed wonder as her hard caramel eyes melted to maple syrup, and she obliged the dog's request for petting. The boy beamed at her.

"He likes you, Miss."

'_He's not the only one_,' Roy thought to himself. The kid, who couldn't be older than thirteen, was looking at her adoringly, just like the dog wriggling with happiness under her hands. He was reminded of another kid that they knew who couldn't be much older. Fullmetal thought the Colonel was an asshole, but he always treated his Lieutenant with polite deference. What was it about her?

When the dog and the boy had continued on their way, the latter still occasionally glancing back at her, Roy put his hands in his pockets and smirked at her. She was expecting him to tease her about the boy, but he let that drop for the moment.

"You like dogs?" He asked her, "I didn't even know." There were a lot of things he didn't even know about her, and it was distressing. He wanted to know her.

"Oh yes," She smiled, but it was a wistful look, "All we ever had were cats when I was growing up."

There it was again, that hint of sorrow he'd almost forgotten about. It permeated her voice, distressing him all over again because he didn't know the cause. Something had happened, recently it seemed, and for whatever reason, she wasn't going to tell him about it. He settled for distracting her.

"Cats aren't bad," He said quickly, as if small talk could fight away any problem, "We had a cat called Mr. Whiskers who lived to be 20 years old, or so my mother claims. Ginger snap?"

He held out the bag, but she shook her head, "It's getting late Colonel. Don't you have some kind of social engagement for the night?"

"Not really." His way of telling her there was no date waiting for him.

But nevertheless, the evening wound down. They had no banal discussions about dogs and candy left to throw out between them, so silence reigned, for the most part. He ate his cookies blithely, and Hawkeye's irritation began to surface all over again when he remarked on the fact that he still hadn't bought any presents.

Finally, she persuaded him to get over his laziness and buy _something_ for at least a few of the people he needed to shop for in the general store on the corner of Grand Avenue. He didn't tell her that the threatening tone she was using was kinda sexy, because he didn't think she'd take that compliment well. Instead, he told her that her nostrils tended to flare unbecomingly when she was being snappish, which was also true, though not quite as flattering. She didn't say a word about that, but she commented with tightfisted distaste when he simply bought the first things he could find, regardless of pricetag.

The corner of Grand and 31st was where they went their separate ways, and he'd walked the rest of the way home in a thick fog of befuddlement, facilitated by the giddy feeling he'd gotten when she touched his arm in a brief parting gesture. It was so completely chaste he doubted she'd even remember doing it, but her fingertips burned him. Her touch. That was the crux of everything. With that realization, his thoughts finally started to fit together and simplify.

Of course he loved her. Of course she loved him. Just because they never said it to each other didn't mean the sentiment wasn't there. _Of course_. He didn't need to think himself into circles around that. The real question was, could he admire her from a distance, or could he not?

He crushed a ginger snap against his palette.

* * *

Three days later, he was preparing for the Christmas party at the Hughes's with the same thoughts still stewing and congealing in his brain. Riza Hawkeye. His Lieutenant. _His_ Lieutenant. Good God, he was already thinking about her in a proprietary sense. How had this happened?

He adjusted his tie in the mirror.

It was as if he'd been sitting, inert and alone, but perfectly content, and then suddenly someone snuck out from the shadows and dropped a bomb in his hands. He was inert and content no longer, and there was little room for any thoughts, save one. What to do with the bomb in his hands? He blamed Maes Hughes more than a little for picking at the issue until it bled.

He dragged his fingers through his hair. It fell neatly back into place.

So what if he was in love with her? So _what_? What was he going to do about it? Stroll up to her one morning at the shooting ranging and ask her out to dinner? Ask her to quit her job because he didn't want her to be hurt? Buy a little house with a white picket fence and raise dogs out in the country? Would either of them be truly satisfied with a slow-as-molasses ending? He couldn't give her any of the aspects of a normal relationship, and she wouldn't want them.

He banged his forehead against the mirror in frustration.

Hughes could try to dress the truth in doilies, but Roy knew it was unwise to be involved with someone who worked for him. He held the purse strings of her career. Her station as his subordinate would not just disappear because he loved her, and he knew enough about coercive men in the military to know he was treading on very dangerous ground if he pursued her. She would not slap him with a harassment suit, and he already knew she wouldn't protest. He knew as a starving wolf knows a bandy-legged fawn will be easy prey. She'd give in if he wanted her, but would it be right?

Would he simply be exploiting her loyalty?

His head hurt, and he didn't know if it was from the mirror or not.

He'd see her at the party. After he cleaned up the inevitable drool that would follow when he saw her in anything form-fitting, he'd endeavor to get her alone, and then they'd clear this whole thing up. Yes. He'd see her at the party, so there was no sense in beating a dead horse.

His gut twisted.

He heard a soft knock on his door and straightened up. Who the hell would stop by unannounced on Christmas Eve? He made his way dazedly to the front door and threw it open incautiously.

Lieutenant Hawkeye took a few steps back when the door flew open inches from her nose. Of course it would be her.

She looked nice, but then, she dressed smartly even when she wasn't going to a party. That was her nature. Surprisingly, it was the strange look in her eyes that grabbed his attention more than anything else. It was a look he knew all too well after staring into the eyes of countless victims moments before their deaths, but he'd never seen her wear it so openly on her face before. Fear.

"Colonel," She said, "I need to tell you something."

In retrospect, he should have known the world was ending the instant he heard the tremor in her voice. A shaking voice in Lieutenant Hawkeye was roughly the equivalent of any other woman tearing her hair out and sobbing. He should have known he wouldn't like what was coming next, but he didn't think.

"Of course. Come in," He gestured toward the inside of his apartment, but she remained on the threshold.

He finally realized something was amiss when she just looked at him, like a hunter looking at a trapped rabbit she must kill. She seemed to be steeling herself before she brought the knife down. Immediately, his imagination conjured up the worst scenarios. She was being transferred. She was sick. She was dying. Oh please, in the name of every God he didn't believe in, don't let her be dying. That would be a pill he could not swallow.

Finally, she blurted it out. Quickly, like a shot of bitter whiskey.

"I'm pregnant."


	3. Even Still

A/N : I'm back! Sorry about the long wait. Future posts should be timelier. Finally the angst genre comes into play with a vengeance. Please take the T rating seriously. I realize that Hawkeye's mother is supposed to be deceased, but I thought of the idea for this story before I read that chapter in the manga. Isis (the town, not the goddess) is also my own creation.

Some memories are in Italics.

8/20/06 – Reuploaded with some revisions.

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**Chapter Two – Even Still**

"I'm pregnant."

Riza watched him from beneath the screen of her eyelashes for his reaction. It was disconcerting that she, who knew the Colonel like the back of her own hand, did not know what to expect in this situation, and she didn't know what to hope for. If he didn't care it would certainly be easier for both of them, but that meant he didn't _care_. And if he _did _care . . . An uncomfortable feeling clawed up her spinal cord and took up residence in the tender area between her throat and clavicle. For the first time since they had met, she could not look him in the eyes.

Time marched infinitely onward, stretching and bending to distort her impression of how quickly it passed, and still he said nothing at all. He gulped. She watched his Adam's apple tremble. She watched his jaw twitch smoothly like the gears in a clock. It had to be illegal for her to stare at him the way she did, and even in a situation like this. Finally, he spoke, and of all the countless reactions she'd braced herself for, she had not expected one meager word.

"Really?" A nervous stomach combined with a sudden onset of nausea caused him to belch on the word, but it wasn't funny enough to cut the tension.

She set her mouth into a rigid line, fighting to stave off the guilt that was strangling her, "Please don't make me say it again, Sir."

Why was she feeling guilty? It wasn't as if she'd betrayed him when they had nothing in the first place. He'd never . . . She'd never . . . They'd never . . . The endings to those sentences refused to be elicited. Denial didn't suit her well. They'd crossed a very hazy boundary a long time ago, and she knew it. But even still . . . she could not live her life smothered under the fetters of what was tacit. Maybe if one of them had been more explicit about what they were feeling, wanting, expecting . . . Maybe. Hindsight is always twenty/twenty, and the past was riddled with unpleasantness.

_"Riza, a hummingbird!"_

"_A what?"_

_A hummingbird! Watch. Watch. Watch. See how beautifully he has slit his own throat?"_

Her justifications crumbled away as another half-formed memory, brittle and yellowed with age, assaulted her from a deep wellspring she did not touch. These occurrences had become frequent over the past few days.

"_Does it hurt him?"_

She thought she'd locked these particular memories away long ago, but everything came to a head when her pregnancy had become undeniable. She had come undone, and they rose through the cracks like vapors coming off of something boiling. She couldn't remember, but she did remember, or at least she knew enough to know she didn't want to remember. Things are usually locked up for a reason.

_"No, you silly girl. It doesn't hurt him, but if he stops flying, he will die."_

A shudder that started in her fingertips moved up her nerves like an electric shock, setting all of her hair on end. She brushed the spectral thought away before it could do more damage. Hummingbirds didn't die that way. She knew better now, and the Colonel was speaking again.

This was about pregnancy. Not bleeding birds.

"I don't understand, Hawkeye," Mustang stuttered like a sleepwalker tripping over furniture, "I don't understand. H-how is that possible. I . . . I don't understand."

Her fingers brushed against her throat convulsively.

_"I don't understand."_

She wished he'd stop saying that.

"How do you _think_?" She instantly regretted the outburst, but it was a parcel her lips had already thrown overboard, and there was no salvaging the words now.

It stopped him cold. She could almost hear the echoing shatter of something irreparable being smashed to bits in the silence that followed. He gazed at her as if he was seeing her for the first time, and she felt rather than saw the heat of his eyes traveling downward, shamelessly raking over her body. He didn't seem to care that she was watching him, or that she'd turned as pink as a tea rose. Maybe that was the point. Retaliation. His eyes were black, and she felt naked in the dark.

She unconsciously took another step back. The air crackled the way it did before a thunderstorm.

"When did you learn this _fascinating_ bit of information, Lieutenant?" His voice, thickly steeped with sarcasm, was hedging on a growl, "And why in God's name did you come to me?"

"This morning," She murmured, "I suspected something, but I didn't know until I visited my doctor this morning."

She'd ignored his other question. He noticed. Perhaps he'd decided he didn't want to know the answer just yet because he didn't repeat the demand.

He pulled in a ragged breath and stared past her at something that wasn't there, "I see."

They were both avoiding another very pertinent question, but she didn't delude herself about his forgetting it. She knew he knew the logical math, and he knew she knew he knew. Babies have fathers and fathers have names. Fathers share beds with mothers, and jealousy complicates everything. Neither of them was forthcoming with confessions.

"Sir, I'll understand if you don't want—" she began haltingly, "If you want to discharge me, or . . ."

She trailed off. She didn't know exactly what the 'or' was. There was no life outside Roy Mustang. She'd never even considered it before. But now . . .

_"Stop shaking. I'm not going to hurt you."_

His face hardened, like granite. She could read nothing in it. She felt blinded, groping in a dark room for a lamp that should've been on. She couldn't read him. She couldn't read him. The thought became a panicked mantra in her head, sweeping away all the dusty memories that plagued her mind. There was only darkness. No lamps this time. How beautifully she'd slit her own throat.

"I don't know," He said those damnable words again.

And he shut the door.

And nothing was resolved.

She lingered on the front steps for only a moment longer before silently plodding back the way she came. The night was cold, and she didn't have a jacket. She knew better. She knew so much better than that.

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Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes was a very understanding man. Anyone who knew him, even in passing, would say he was likeable, if not a little nosy at times. He was a good husband and an enthusiastic father, a paragon of patience known for his effervescence and easy rapport with difficult people like Roy Mustang. Nothing seemed to upset him for more than five minutes, and he was rarely angry.

At the moment he was fuming.

Not only had Roy completely blown off his party, but he hadn't even called to explain himself. The Colonel could be exceedingly arrogant at times, but this took the cake. For his friend's sake, Maes hoped he was bedridden or incapacitated, because otherwise he had some serious explaining to do. And even more suspicious was the fact that his first lieutenant was also absent without an excuse. The incredible coincidence that they were _both_ missing was noticeable to everyone at the party, and people like Havoc and Breda were quick to theorize. This sort of behavior from Roy wasn't entirely unusual, but it was extremely odd for Hawkeye to ignore common courtesies.

At first, he'd figured Roy must have his reasons. He also suspected Mustang could account for Hawkeye's absence, and visa versa. It wasn't like Maes to automatically assume the worst, so he waited with slightly thinning patience for an explanatory phone call. But Christmas Day came and went, and there was still no word from either of them.

Now he was fuming, and maybe just a slight bit worried. Roy didn't exactly have an excellent holiday track record. He tended to sit around at home and drink. Liberally. After he'd gotten sloshed, he tended to contemplate his existence, and his medicine cabinet. Never a good combination. How dare he not even call to assure him he wasn't passed out on the bathroom floor? Yes, Maes Hughes was very angry. Not worried. Angry.

So on the morning of the 26th he sat down in the kitchen that still smelled like gingerbread and fished out Roy's home phone number. Gracia was moving around between the cupboards placing dry dishes back in their proper places with tiny clinks, but he knew she was there to observe. She worried about Roy as much as he did, and she'd listened to her husband rant and rage about Roy's inconsiderate behavior for the better part of the weekend. He wanted to tell her that she shouldn't have to pull her hair out over his crazy friend, but it was very soothing to have someone to share his concern.

"He's probably fine," She smiled softly at him when she saw the frown knotting his face.

He pushed his glasses up and dialed, helplessly returning his wife's smile despite his irritated mood, "If he is, he won't be when I get through with him."

She swatted his arm with a dishtowel, to which he only smirked impudently, "Okay, I won't hurt the guy. Assuming he answers his phone."

Roy picked up after four rings, and he sounded perfectly composed, "Hello?" Not at all sick, dying, inebriated, or otherwise harmed.

Hughes practically shot out of his chair before he remembered he couldn't strangle someone over a phone line, "Roy! You're alive! Where the _Hell_ have you been!"

Roy's reply was concise, but not at all clarifying, "Lieutenant Hawkeye stopped by my apartment on Christmas Eve."

"Mmmkay . . . . . and how is that an alibi?" He sighed. It was always Lieutenant Hawkeye with this man. When was he going to ask her out and finally end everybody's misery? He wanted to scream with frustration. Instead he watched Gracia reach to put a cup on the highest shelf and grinned when her shirt crept up just a little in the process, "Listen Roy, I know you like her and all, but its just common courtesy to show up at your friend's party, or at least call if you're not---"

"Hughes! She's pregnant!" His friend practically shrieked.

That word whipped his attention back to the phone in his hands more effectively than a gunshot, "I'm sorry. I thought you just said she was pregnant."

"She is!" There was a crashing sound like someone beating a phone against a table on the line.

"Oh you sly dog, Mustang. And all this time I thought you were still pussyfooting around each other like a pair of---"

"Dammit Maes! I never touched her!" There were more crashing sounds.

"Oh," He stopped and let that information sink in, "_Oh_. I didn't know she was seeing anyone."

Gracia set down the plate she was holding to stare curiously at him. Her husband's end of the conversation coupled with the anxious look on his face had grabbed her attention. The dishes were forgotten.

"She isn't!" Maes had to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment when Roy began to screech, "She won't tell me how the hell it happened!"

"Hey, hey, just take it easy, Mustang," He exchanged a panicked look with Gracia, "Don't touch those gloves of yours. Did she tell you who the father is at least?"

"No."

"Did you ask her?"

"No."

"Roy!"

"Well, come on!" Roy hissed. His voice wavered dangerously, "I was a little shell-shocked! I just realized that I'm in love with her, and she . . . and she . . . It's not like I was thinking clearly!"

Maes rubbed his temples. Of all the things his friend should not have to cope with right now, this defied imagination, "You didn't do anything stupid did you?"

"No."

Said a little too fast and a little too softly to be convincing.

"You don't have any sharp objects lying around you do you?"

"No."

Said in the same tone of voice.

"Alright, just stay right there, and don't move. I'll be over in five."

He slammed the phone back into its cradle before Roy could give him a protest and looked sharply at Gracia. She was watching him attentively. Judging by the look on her face, she'd learned the gist of the conversation. Thank God he'd married her. He grimaced at the thought of what he would do in Roy's situation.

"If he's bad, I'm bringing him back with me," He told her, "And he will be."

She nodded, "I'll set an extra place at the table."

He went to the closet for his coat, and when he returned, she was at the table, staring down at the wood grain with her fingers knitted together under her chin. He stopped.

"What?"

She looked up at him with bewilderment in her eyes, "Don't you think it's a bit odd, his lieutenant getting pregnant all of a sudden? I met her before. She doesn't seem to be the type who would do something like that," Her eyes shifted back to the table, "I don't like it, Maes."

The implications of her words hit him like a hammer to the brain. Something wasn't adding up. Had something _happened_ to Hawkeye? He couldn't even think about that possibility at the moment. One calamity at a time was more than enough.

"It is suspicious," He admitted, "But we have to worry about Roy for now. Riza doesn't like people mucking in her mud. It would be wise not to press her."

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She shook out the contents of the bottle and cradled the pills in her open palm. They were tiny and pale, robin's egg blue, marked with the pharmacist's X for authenticity. Controlled doses of sertraline. _"Take two tablets by mouth once daily."_ Always the same instructions. Carefully, she slipped the pills back into the bottle, one by one, until there were only two remaining. She took them with water and wondered absurdly if the medication was harmful to the life inside her. She set the bottle on the counter with its fellows, and laughed ruefully at the foolishness of sentimentality.

The pills in the bottle beside the faucet were far more lethal, and she had purchased them with intent. One type of pill to force the uterus to shed its lining, along with its fragile tenant, and another that would cause the uterus to expel it all a few days later. She had killed before. Killing was as easy as aiming for the chest and pulling a trigger, or in this case, taking a few more pills, the sooner the better. Still, she didn't touch them. Not yet. Not yet.

Was she having second thoughts?

Her fingers strayed to the flat plain of skin below her bellybutton and remained, clinging like dazed moths to her starched shirt. She knew there was a concept she wasn't grasping, and it was something important, but imagining a child of her own was like imagining the ocean. She'd heard of the phenomenon. It was supposed to be incredible, if secondhand accounts were to be believed, but she had never seen the waves crashing into the beach or tasted the salt air or heard the shrieking gulls doing cartwheels above the surf for herself. Being told about the sea was like viewing a giant painting through a straw. The whole picture was lost, and it didn't concern her. She didn't want to see the ocean, and she didn't think about it.

The Colonel would say she was being an ostrich. She couldn't avoid everything by averting her eyes.

Why hadn't she told him _everything_? Why did it feel like someone had sewn her lips closed whenever she tried to explain what she'd done? What she'd been doing. What she was doing. She stared at the bottles on her sink and wondered how the two parts of her life that were never supposed to touch had crashed into each other without warning.

She wouldn't allow herself to think about him. Thinking about him hurt like a dull razorblade grinding against her temples. Yet another reason to stick her head in the sand.

What she needed to know was whether she still had a job, _her_ job, the only one she wanted. Personal issues with the Colonel had to be set aside if she was going to continue protecting him. The man who had done this would not be helping her. Even as she ran to Mustang with her burdens, she knew she could never tell _him _the truth. He would not be anything close to forgiving. It would be so much easier if there was nothing to tell.

She eyed the bottles like a cat watching a snake and pressed intricate circular patterns into her abdomen. How could she worry about losing something she couldn't even feel? This wasn't supposed to be so hard.

She wandered out of the bathroom like a child lost at a market, hands out, feeling her way along familiar walls with fingertips. She was alone in a maze of dark futures, and somehow, along the way she'd dropped what was most important to her. Roy.

She slid gratefully into a couch and closed her eyes.

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By the time Roy Mustang returned to work, he had reached a conclusion.

After his confrontation with Hawkeye it took awhile for coherent thoughts to form, but when he was dragged to Hughes's house his brain finally began to engage, and his conclusion took shape. It was a conclusion he didn't want, so he let it simmer and drift through his mind while he processed it. Occasionally, he glanced at it out of the corners of his eyes, but mostly he pretended this conclusion didn't exist. It was almost a game sometimes. How long could he ignore the inevitable?

He would have to ask her to leave. _He would have to._ That was the only option when he thought about it logically. His work and his sanity were suffering under the strain, and while he didn't much care for perfection in the former, the latter was becoming a pressing concern. He couldn't even look at her, quietly working at her desk, without feeling a sharp pain just below his ribcage. Maybe it was regret, jealousy, heartache, or some combination of the three, but either way it _hurt_. Sometimes he wanted to wrap his arms around her and make her belong only to him, and sometimes he just wanted to wrap his arms around her until they both stopped breathing. He would have to request her transfer before he hurt her. Hurting her was out of the question, even if he was angry. But why did transferring her feel like someone had reached down his throat and ripped out his still-beating heart?

Pregnant. His mind flung the word around like a ricocheting pinball. After repeating it to himself a thousand times, he decided it was a rather silly sounding word, and he'd rather not have to speak it aloud. Ever.

Until that word sprang into existence, he'd always pictured Lieutenant Hawkeye as a chaste being, above the sins of the flesh. He'd unconsciously made her into a goddess in his mind to stop himself from wanting sordid things. At times, he almost succeeded in pretending she didn't have a woman's body under her shapeless uniform. It was preposterous to assume she was a virgin, but he hadn't given the matter more than a passing thought. She was the goddess of gunfire, and it was enough to know he wouldn't be having her. Now her humanity was undeniable, and the idea of another man even laying a fingernail on her was enough to . . .

To . . .

He looked down when he heard seams tearing in cloth and groaned out loud when he saw what he'd done. He'd wrenched the thumb right off his glove. It lay like a wilted flower, white on his open palm.

His subordinates didn't even look up from their desks when he leapt to his feet, snarling about cheaply-made gloves and cursing them with every creative cuss or litany he could call to mind. He stomped around behind his desk, growling with impotent rage, and finally marched out of the office, most likely to blow something up.

Everybody in the room let their breath out when the door slammed shut behind the Colonel.

This was not an uncommon occurrence in the past two days. The Colonel seemed to have developed a severe case of bipolar disorder over the holidays. Sometimes he'd seem perfectly calm and focused, freakishly intent on finishing his paperwork, and other times he looked like he'd strangle the next person to cross him with their own spinal cord. Nobody knew what would set him off. Coming to the Colonel with a problem or a piece of paperwork to be signed was like playing with a lit stick of dynamite. Fury had nearly cracked from the stress.

Lieutenant Hawkeye, the only one with the fortitude to put up with him when he pitched these fits, was treated the worst of all. He snapped and snarled at her when she spoke to him, and when she wasn't speaking, he'd stare at her with a very peculiar expression on his face. Havoc thought it was lustful, Fury thought it was murderous, Falmon thought it was remorseful, and Breda thought it was just plain creepy. Everybody _knew_ they had a thing. Even they knew they had a thing. It was the reason the pair seemed joined at the hip and the reason Lieutenant Hawkeye was completely and totally off limits to any man who had even heard of Colonel Mustang. The unspeakable 'thing' went without saying, but this was an entirely new ball of wax.

What's more, she didn't seem to mind his unsavory treatment. She would bow her head in an uncharacteristically submissive gesture whenever he berated her, and she continued to return to his desk for more tantrums. The atmosphere they exuded between the two of them was downright chilling. Something had happened, and it was bad enough to tear them apart.

Hawkeye didn't even look up when Mustang exited in a huff. She yawned (actually _yawned_ in public) and rifled through a stack of papers. The room settled into a lazy dust mote silence for all of five minutes.

Until the Colonel burst back into the room with General Grumman on his heels. The silence fell even silenter. What was the General doing here?

"Lieutenant Hawkeye," Mustang barked.

She sprang to her feet and saluted. Possibilities ran rampant in her mind, chased, consumed, and reproduced with each other. The Colonel wouldn't have said anything about _that_. He couldn't have. But if it wasn't about that, then what was it about? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"Riza," Her grandfather approached her with his hand clasped, "It's your mother. She is ill, and she may be dying."

The words didn't give birth to immediate meaning. This was so far removed from what she had originally expected to hear that she stood, uncomprehending, for an elastic stretch of time. The silence was too oppressive. Words frothed up from within her and bubbled out before she had wrapped her mind around all angles of the issue.

"Yes," She bleated, anything to snap the tension, "And what about it?"

The General frown at her sadly, his face similar to that of a mournful dog. Mustang didn't blink. Everyone else in the room openly gaped. She had never spoken of anyone with such unveiled contempt as far as they were concerned. Mustang and Grumman knew better, but while her Colonel could have cared less, her grandfather was not about to let the conversation drop on that heavy note.

"What about it is you are coming with us to Isis," He took off his glasses, methodically polished them, and placed them back on the bridge of his nose, as if he'd remarked about the weather, "She will want to see you."

Riza eyed her audience, but then she decided the scene had already been made. Anything she said after that first outburst would be anticlimactic, "Fine. But I would appreciate if . . . wait . . . _us_?"

She eyed her grandfather suspiciously. He motioned to the man beside him.

"Your Colonel will be accompanying us."


	4. Isis

A/N : I hope this chapter is slightly better than the last. I didn't like that one.

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**Chapter Three – Isis**

Riza Hawkeye was angry. That was the best explanation for the simmering red poison that wafted through her at the General's words. It struck her that in the face of her mother's deteriorating health, she ought to be concerned, worried, or heartsick for her only living parent. Or she should at least pretend to be those things for her grandfather's sake, but when she dug for sorrow and solemnity, she only dredged up more rage.

She wasn't fond of her mother. She hadn't seen her in over seven years, and she was _always_ sick. As far back as her memory could supply her, her mother had always cultivated a multitude of aches and pains, and she had a particular talent for self-diagnoses. A poor heart. A sensitive stomach. Fragile nerves. Cough. Fever. Sore throat. Dizziness. Appendicitis and Heart Attacks were also frequently reported. Despite the apparent gravity of this latest incident, Riza couldn't find it in herself to care very strongly about another illness at the moment. She only cared that Roy Mustang had exploited it for his own advantage. Deftly.

He had completely and utterly thwarted her hazy notion of escaping him before the idea had even dawned on her that Isis would be a good place to run. He was going to follow her because he knew her too well. He knew she would try to evade him, so he grabbed a leash to rein her in, and now she wanted to turn and bite him. Couldn't he see that they'd lost whatever they'd had? Couldn't he see that they were _hurting_ each other?

Why couldn't he just let her go?

She stared at him with barely muted outrage, "Why?"

He told her a bald-faced lie with nothing but pure innocence on his tongue and in his eyes, "You know I knew your mother quite well." The Colonel was dangerous like that.

It was pointless to refute him when he donned that guileless expression. She could call him a liar but what would that accomplish when he was bent on coming with her regardless? Besides, she reminded herself, one did not frivolously insult one's superiors. The fact that she'd never hesitated to call him the names he merited (Lazy. Crass. Ignorant.) in the past was beside the point. She didn't want to confront the small part of her that was grateful for his determination.

She dropped her gaze. He was released from the scrutiny, but the anger still remained, drumming like fingers under a desk in the back of her mind. And now she knew who she was really angry at. Self-loathing had a taste like ashes.

Grumman smiled somberly at her and turned to face the door, "Good girl. Now that everything is settled I'm going to notify General Hakuro of our plans. I suggest both of you start packing tonight because our train leaves tomorrow." He bowed to the rest of the room, "Gentlemen," and departed.

Roy's gaze swung in a pendulum arc over the room, touching everything but her, "Lieutenant Havoc. You're in charge until I get back."

"Yes, Sir."

His subordinates watched them as if they might attack each other at any moment, and she had to admit the inclination was there. She bit down a sassy remark, announced her intention to fill something with bullets, and set off for the shooting range.

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The train ride from Central to the southernmost city of Isis was longer and more excruciating than being forced to listen to a horrible and easily offended soloist sing an entire opera. Nails-down-the-chalkboard discomfiture had become such a constant companion that Roy's expression retained something of a permanent wince throughout the duration of the journey.

Tension filled their compartment to the rim, the excess spilling out the sides, and decorous silence only increased the pervasive feeling of awkwardness. Roy brooded. Riza watched the monotonous white and grey landscape scroll past the window. A tiny new life rested and continued to grow, uninhibited in the least by the disruption it had caused. The train hiccupped and bumbled noisily over the iron track hammered down before it. The compartment wobbled drunkenly and bounced them in their seats. They wouldn't look at each other, and given how small the compartment bench was, it was truly fascinating to behold how they had meticulously avoided touching each other as well.

If General Grumman noticed Mustang and Hawkeye's newfound coolness toward each other, he didn't comment on it. The General took everything as a matter of course, and the immanent death of his daughter weighed more heavily upon him than the immanent life of a great-grandchild he knew nothing about. He was uncharacteristically stolid, sitting across from them with his hands folded in his lap, staring at nothing.

After a time the roaring sounds of the train lurching beneath them unwound him. He couldn't think about hypothetical funerals and graves any longer. There had to be a distraction. He watched the boy beside Riza stare disconsolately at his hands. No matter how old Roy became, he would always see a small, dark-eyed boy between blinks. The man, the alchemist, the war hero he had become did not dim persistent remembrance of what he had once been. Just a pup that used to follow Riza around. It was rather fitting that now she did the following. They were never going to quit each other.

He allowed himself to grin at the thought, "So, Colonel, have you been well?"

The younger officers were both yanked out of their separate reveries at the unexpected sound. Roy glanced at Lieutenant Hawkeye with wary deference. If looks could kill, hers would nail him square in the chest at up to 900 yards. He would have to choose his words carefully.

"I've been better," he said neutrally, "I don't think I've been to Isis since . . ." he swallowed, "Since . . ."

The words stuck to the back of his throat. Suddenly, it seemed rather hot in their compartment. Stifling actually. _Oh good God in heaven_. Where was a hole in the floor when he needed one?

"My father died," she finished coldly.

"Yes . . . that," he mumbled.

Nice one. He just _had_ to remind her about _that_ when her mother was on her deathbed. Could he be any smoother? The train hit a large bump. Silence reigned for a beat.

"Have you ever been to her grandfather's estate before?" Grumman tried valiantly to salvage the conversation, but his efforts were futile, "It is very beautiful, especially when it's winter in Central."

"No, he hasn't," Hawkeye's voice was sharp-edged. "My father's alchemy was the only thing that interested him."

She'd thrown down the opening gauntlet.

"It was not, and you of all people ought to know it!" Roy's own annoyance flared up with a sudden violence. He seemed to have been waiting for an excuse, "You are such a _liar_!"

He'd retaliated.

This was going to escalate.

"Oh, _I'm_ a liar?" She leaned away from him and calmly brushed her knuckles against the window. A maddening façade of composure was her deadliest weapon against him, and she had drawn it. All she had to do was goad him until he flew off the handle, and the argument was hers.

Grumman watched them with growing alarm. They were looking at each other like two ballistic wolverines about to go for each other's throats. They needed to get the fighting over with, or he'd never have any semblance of peace in Isis, but there was still something private that neither of them would speak about in his presence. He knew they were holding back.

He coughed delicately and stood up, giving them a hastily fumbled excuse, "If you two will please excuse me, I think I'll try to find a dining car and obtain some refreshment."

They both watched the General practically dash out of the compartment with quizzical interest, but then Roy rounded on her, and she glared at him. The hurt and indignation he'd been nursing close to his breast had turned into a recognizable emotion that he could manage; Fury. She noticed at this potentially dangerous proximity that it made his pores smell like melting copper. His anger was always matchstick hot, just as hers was always brutally cold. Her eyes slanted calculatingly. Now he was going to ask her what he really wanted to know.

"While we are on the subject of lies, Lieutenant Hawkeye," he hissed, "Are you ever going to tell your family what you told me on Christmas Eve?"

She clenched her fists in her lap, "Of course."

He pressed her, "When?"

"When I'm ready," she growled, "Until then, I would appreciate your discretion on the matter."

She could see he didn't believe her. It was no use lying to him when he could smell falsehoods on her breath. She wished he wasn't so close even as she savored the intimacy. There was something subtly sexual in the way he was leaning toward her, and she didn't miss a beat. This niggling flicker of desire and curiosity had become an undeniable part of their everyday interaction, and it was affecting her ability to think rationally.

"Are you at least going to tell the General?" he demanded, "It's a little hard to pretend nothing's wrong in front of him. Not that he doesn't already know something's wrong already . . ."

She cast her eyes on the window, "I can't."

"Why not?" He stared at her until she had to look back at him, "Why did you tell me?"

Why so many things? Romance and war fit together like oil and water, so why couldn't he separate them? Why had he fallen in love on a battlefield? Why had she pledged her life to his crusade even though living without her was the last thing he could do? Why would he build his life around her when she was impossible to cage in? Was there anything more perfectly irrational? Why? Why? Why? Everything else was the same question trimmed with eloquence.

"I think you know the answer, Sir."

Anger fizzled out of him in a breath, "Hawkeye, how—"

"Don't—"

"No." He cut off her protest with a severity he rarely used on her outside of work, "You can't tell me not to ask you for the truth. I need to know what happened. If you are going to make me your secret keeper, I think I deserve your confidence. Why can't you trust me anymore?"

His hand folded around hers, and for a moment time and thought refused to move forward. The argument dissolved, and the only thing that mattered was his warm, steady palm cradling her fingers and twining them through his. Through, and through, and though again. The perfect embrace. His thumb dipped into the hollow of her palm, and his nail followed the deep set lines of head, heart and life. Her hand fell open at the touch.

A pack of wild goosebumps ran down his arms and up hers.

"Hawkeye," His voice was a gentle thrum, like the buzz of hummingbird wings, "Hawkeye, you know I could never hate you. I'm beginning to think you could shoot me between the eyes, and I'd still . . ."

He couldn't finish that sentence.

"You'd be dead, Sir," she supplied helpfully.

"Yes," he agreed, stroking the calluses on her palm and watching her watch him, "I suppose I would be, but you do see my point, don't you? I trust you to watch my back. Why can't you do the same? I'm worried about you."

She blinked at him. She often did that when she couldn't speak. It gave him a chance to notice how surprisingly dark her eyelashes were and how ridiculously intense his longing was becoming. Goddamn her for being beautiful when he wanted to hate her. He really could despise her if he didn't love her so.

He must have frowned at her because in an instant she had pulled down a blank shutter across her features, "I don't think we should talk about this here, Sir."

"You're avoiding me," He gripped her hand almost possessively. His thumb seared into her palm like a hot brand.

"_Ahem_."

They both froze when they heard someone clearing their throat. He dropped her hand with a start, and she pulled away as if he'd bitten her. General Grumman was standing over them grinning like a jackal at their discomfort. Roy felt caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He knew the older man liked him well enough, but he didn't know if the General's hospitality would extend to letting him touch his granddaughter. He'd kill him where he sat if he knew the thoughts that had stolen through his mind moments ago.

"I see your discussion didn't come to blows. Good for you kiddo because she'd shoot you dead," Grumman slid into his seat, grin still intact, "They don't serve any food until five o'clock. Can you believe that?"

Hawkeye brushed an imaginary speck of lint off her uniform, "It doesn't surprise me."

Grumman made a steeple of his fingers and peered over the top, "Do you still have that licorice?"

She shook her head, "Not for you."

He laughed, eliciting a reluctant smile from his granddaughter, "That man calls you darling, and you give him candy. Perhaps we should start calling you darling too."

Hawkeye scowled, "You just try it."

"Darling, may I have some licorice please?"

He was teasing her, and she was letting him. The banter was a slice of lightness before the foreboding gloom of what was to come in Isis. He wanted to ignore death, and she wanted to ignore life. Roy watched the interaction between them with the fascination of a cat with a fishbowl.

"If you weren't my grandfather I'd have to fight you for that," she glared like a child being sent to bed early, and the effect was charming more than threatening.

"Darling, the licorice?"

"No, you beggar!"

Roy knew better than anyone how much she detested pet names. He'd seen her flinch at them often when he was younger, and he also distinctly remembered that her grandfather, Jacob Hawkeye, was the only member of her family who did not garner scorn for his continual use of 'darling' when referring to her. That was just another thing he had taken as a given. He'd never asked himself why this was.

Grumman produced a book from his travel bag and opened it on his knee, "Fine. I can see you are hell-bent on being stingy, Riza, but I forgive because you seem distracted. I'll not intrude upon you if you'd like to finish the heated discussion you were having with the Colonel before." That was accompanied by a sly smile.

Hawkeye paled and looked down at her lap. The General became absorbed in his reading. The conversation was unofficially over for the time being. Roy leaned his head back on the stiff bench and closed his eyes.

What was he doing here?

They were going to Isis. The molasses of memories that were unsullied by bloodshed, when he had still been new and whole and essentially good. The padded nest where he had tested the powers of alchemy and flirted with notions of helping the greater good. The place where he had met a little blonde girl who had humpty-dumptied his fragile life, and he still couldn't put it back together again.

At least he wasn't going back to the house where the man who was her father and his teacher had died. Apparently, her mother had packed up their belongings and moved to her father-in-law's estate soon after the tragedy, and the house had long since fallen into other hands. He couldn't say he wasn't grateful. Those were memories he was more than happy to avoid.

Anyone in Isis who would remember him would not be pleased that he had used his teacher's alchemy to destroy Ishballans. The one good thing about this crisis with Hawkeye was the blessed distraction from the demons of his past. Perhaps _this_ was divine vengeance for the crimes he'd committed. He'd been bracing himself for catastrophic justice ever since the war ended, but instead he was given rewards, promotions, recommendations, status, power, and _her_. The universe had gone mad, and she was placed by his side. Now, finally, here was his punishment wrapped in a tidy package. The woman he loved was someone's consort, and someone's mother, but she would never be anything more than a lieutenant to him.

So achingly close, yet so insurmountably far.

Like Isis and Ishbal, tethered together by the sequential order of his memory. If he could just wipe them both from his memory, the waking world would not compel and disgust him so.

Eventually, he dozed, but it was in fits and starts like the sound coming through on a bad radio station. He simply wasn't comfortable enough to rest deeply. The seat pressed its knuckles into the back of his neck and bruised his tailbone, and sleep teased his senses.

When he blinked and focused again, it was dark outside and a small oil lamp had been lit above their compartment. The light looked disembodied in the darkness, falling in a great yellow heap over General Grumman who was still bent over his book with his glasses slightly askew on his nose. He appeared to be snoozing, but the reflection on his glasses made it impossible to tell.

There was an unfamiliar pressure on his right shoulder. He craned his neck to see his beloved first lieutenant sound asleep against his side. Her bangs had fallen over her face, her lips were slightly parted, and she was . . . different somehow. In slumber, she was not a cold-eyed sharpshooter. She was just a mesmerizing woman, remarkable and uncomplicated by circumstance.

As much as he loved this glimpse of softness, he missed the more willful expressions that animated her. He missed the bourbon pools of her open eyes and the syrup ambrosia of her gaze, stony, repelling, dangerous, pulse-pounding, steadfast, possessing. A brain-crushing cocktail of everything all at once.

He always did like his liquor hard.

She sighed in her sleep and stretched out a restless hand that thumped listlessly against the seat back. The breath on his face was stale and sweet, like a neglected cup of tea. He wanted to drink it all. He wanted to slip his arms around her and pull her closer. He wanted nothing between them. His eyes dropped to her abdomen. Nothing.

The territoriality of that last thought was frightening. Roy didn't used to consider himself a jealous man. He never had been when it came to sharing pecuniary things like glory and wealth. He had thought it was reasonable to assume he knew his own character, but Lieutenant Hawkeye had a wonderfully annoying way of rearranging the careful order of his previous notions. She'd already proven to him millions of times that he had more strength and more courage than he knew, and the qualities of protectiveness and devotion that he was so known for did not emerge in his personality until after he had met her. He wasn't sure if she'd instilled these traits or they had always been there, waiting for a reason to come forth.

In the past, this had always been a good thing. Bravery and loyalty to one's companions is admirable, but this newfound surge of jealousy he felt around her was destructive and petty. It brought to light too many darker truths that made his skin itch. Not all of the qualities she brought out in him were pure and examinable.

But she was here now. He'd greedily take all of her attention now and worry about losing her when he could stand to think about such things. He dropped his head until his chin brushed against her hair, and slept in relative peace.

Only to be woken by something incessant tapping his shoulder.

"Geroff!" he managed to grumble and swatted half-heartedly at the tapping.

He was so comfortable. The pillow beneath his head was warm and deliciously supple . . . _Wait_ . . . Supple? It moved and tapped him again.

"Colonel," it spoke. He recognized the voice.

"Colonel Mustang, please get up."

The peeved tone of the voice reminded him of a safety clicking off. He instinctively obeyed and found himself nose to nose with a very discomfited looking Hawkeye. Her eyes were exceptionally wide at this proximity. It took him several long moments to realize the train had stopped and then another to realize that was probably why she'd woken him.

"Sir," she cleared her throat, "Could you please get off me?"

Realization dawned slowly on his face. She watched his slack countenance take on a myriad of expressions as he came out of his affected trance. They flew too quickly for her to grasp. His eyes fluttered, caught in her own captivation before dropping to take in the positioning of their bodies. As if he needed verification for what he could already feel.

They were too close. Exactly what constituted being too close was a blurry idea at best, but this, here, now, threw everything into sharp contrast and vivid color. This heat beneath her skin and the shiver below her navel, this was too close. She was teetering perilously at the edge of something deep, and the fear that she would never regain her senses pulled her back from the edge.

He smirked at her, a defense mechanism she'd expected him to employ and removed his hand from her lap, "I suppose I could."

He continued to smile, the cat who'd eaten a whole batch of canaries. She wished she had the means to force his words back down his throat.

He slid back into his own equilibrium. She silently mended the tattered walls of her own personal space. The General closed and put away his book without comment. His granddaughter and the Colonel reminded him of songbirds caught in the perpetual ritual of courtship. Approach and repel. He'd resigned himself to the dizzying dance and its inevitable conclusion long ago.

They gathered their belongings and shuffled off the train, bleary eyed in the darkness. The station clock announced that it was well past midnight, and the platform they disembarked onto was almost empty.

She could taste the difference in the air. Isis at Christmas time was temperate and torpid. The scents of magnolia and lilac weighed heavily on the station, and within moments her uniform fit her like a furnace. One glance at the Colonel pulling uncomfortably at his collar told her she was not alone in her suffering.

Only the General seemed unaffected. He seemed to collect all of the sights and smells in one glance, and the hearty sigh that escaped him was his nod of approval.

"I've arranged for a cab to pick us up at the station, and it should arrive soon," he informed them, "So look sharp my little turtledoves."

Mustang missed the entendre. She rolled her eyes.

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They pulled into Jacob Hawkeye's estate a little after one o'clock. The cab crunched over the gravel drive, and in the darkness, Roy could just make out the skeletal boughs of elm trees, hanging in arches over the avenue.

The house itself was not entirely visible in the darkness, but he could make out imported brick and clean, white wainscoting. It was incomprehensibly enormous; a castle without the moat and the turrets, and the extremities disappeared into the ravenous gullet of darkness. The trimmed hedges and carefully pruned fruit trees that adorned the front lawn cast menacing shadows, and the breeze that stirred the boughs was like a wet slice of cantaloupe on his tongue. A nighthawk whistled gutturally, and the engines hummed to a stop.

A doorman appeared to assist with their luggage. Hawkeye had to be woken again, muttering and brushing away offered help with steely-eyed impatience. Roy wasn't sure if it was the trip to Isis, the fluctuating hormones, or some combination of the two that had put her into such an irritable state. He also suspected she wasn't terribly pleased with him.

Somehow, the three of them managed to trundle through the great mahogany doors that sealed off the interior of Jacob Hawkeye's impressive domain. Roy was surprised to find the lamps lit, and the owner himself waiting in the foyer to greet them, dressed and groomed to receive despite the lateness of the hour.

He was tall and candlewick thin with an undeniable air of aristocracy about him. The monocle tucked into his breast pocket was gold trimmed, and his sparse hair was combed back severely against his skull. Roy's memories of him were from a time when his cheekbones didn't stick out quite so much and his hands hadn't been knobbed and laced with veins, but the traits that likened him to his granddaughter where still evident. His toffee colored eyes glowed with a hard lacquer of intelligence, and he held his shoulders and mouth squarely. His face, like hers, was not a face that one expected smiles from.

The footman announced them and disappeared with a bow. They all smiled politely.

"Darling," their host only had eyes for Hawkeye, "It's been so long. I had hoped better circumstances would bring you back."

His severe face broke into a warm smile, but mirth was absent smile she gave him in return, "Hello, Grandpa." It was a look of barely concealed distress.

She approached him, but they did not embrace. Neither of them was terribly fond of being touched. The respectful distance was mutually understood as a sign of affection. He regarded her with the fondness of a father, and she saluted just for the effect.

She turned her head to regard something on the wall and spoke apologetically, "I'm sorry I didn't come down for Christmas."

And then Roy knew exactly what was troubling her. He didn't know how he'd gained this sudden talent for perception, and he also noticed that neither grandfather had picked up on the depth her feelings. She was an excellent liar, but he could read her, and he'd have to speak to her about misplaced guilt later.

"I can understand extenuating circumstances," her grandfather said reassuringly.

She was not mollified in the least, but the rest of the room couldn't be ignored. He tipped another grin in her direction before greeting the two men who had not moved from the doorway.

"Good evening, General," he exchanged a curt handshake and a nod with Grumman, "It's good to see you as well. And who might you be, Sir?"

Roy opened his mouth to introduce himself, but much to his surprise, a stream of recognition suddenly flooded into Mr. Hawkeye's rigid face, "Oh my God. _Roy_? Is that you?"

He could do little more than nod sheepishly, completely stunned that Mr. Hawkeye even remembered him at all. The older man moved to get a better look at him, and suddenly he felt like a specimen under a microscope.

"You _are_ him. I thought I'd never have the chance see you again, and look how much you've grown," He glanced at Grumman, "When you said Riza's Colonel had decided to come along, you never mentioned who he was."

Grumman gave him his sly smile, "I didn't think you'd mind."

"Goodness no," Mr. Hawkeye seized Roy's hand and shook it vigorously, "Well, in any case, this is just fantastic! My son's only apprentice, here, under my roof! It's good to see that you and Riza have stuck together, and of course I'm very pleased to have you here."

"Thank you, Mr. Hawkeye. You are too kind," He glanced at the younger Hawkeye. She was studying the floor, but she looked up when she felt him watching her.

"Grandpa," she interjected softly, "How is she?"

Mr. Hawkeye frowned and scratched his chin. "The doctor's say your mother is still in critical condition. Nobody is very optimistic, but I say it's still too early to give up on her. She could very well pull through, but everybody's coming down here like the funeral is already scheduled."

Silence descended over the room and incased it for an indeterminate time. Roy watched Hawkeye pace by a window and fiddle with the hem of an emerald curtain. In elegant settings like this one, she always reminded him of a powerful animal trapped in a small cage.

"We'd just like to be there for her," Grumman murmured.

Sympathy flooded Mr. Hawkeye's face, "Of course. I wasn't suggesting that it was wrong of you to take a trip to Isis," he frowned, "I just don't like the defeatist attitudes of her doctors. Lately, they haven't bothered put a positive spin on anything. It will lift her spirits considerably when she sees that you have come to visit, but it is quite late now. We'll visit the hospital tomorrow when everyone is rested. Riza?"

She dragged her attention away from the curtains and the Colonel's prying stare to look at Mr. Hawkeye, "Yes?"

"You three have been relegated to the guest bedrooms in the east wing," he told her, "Your favorite room has been prepared for you, and the General has his usual room as well, which leaves Roy to the one at the end of the hall. I trust you can show him where it is."

"Of course," she blinked, "But what about . . ."

"I have some arrangements to make with the General," Mr. Hawkeye waved at her offhandedly. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with."

Her eyes narrowed, "It's nothing I need to concern myself with, or it's nothing you want me to overhear?"

Mr. Hawkeye shrugged, "Both perhaps."

She stalked out of the room, and Roy took that to mean he ought to follow her. He bid a hasty goodnight to her two grandfathers and made for the corridor she had just disappeared into. When he caught up with her, she didn't even glance at him. The corridor was getting darker and darker as they proceeded into the depths of the building. He entertained a brief thought about lighting some of the wall brackets they passed, but she was moving too fast to be stopped, and it was pointless to light them for only one use.

"Hawkeye . . ." he tried hesitantly, "You do know that none of this is your fault. Don't you?"

Her eyes shuttled sideways to take him in, "Sir?"

"Your mother. She wouldn't be miraculously well if you had visited for Christmas," He stared at the dark woodwork on the walls and trailed a finger along the molding, "There was nothing you could have done to prevent this from happening. Your grandfather did as much as anyone could do for her, and you had problems of your own."

They ascended a staircase. She made a sound like, "hmph" in her throat. He couldn't recognize it as dissention or agreement. Normally, he would have trusted her expression for an answer, but she was climbing the stairs ahead of him, and in the darkness he had to focus on not tripping on the steps.

Finally, they emerged onto the second floor landing. Silver moonlight spilled from the windows in the open rooms and pooled into grayish patches on the floor. His eyes adjusted, and he could see again, if only in ethereal shades of pearl and shadow.

She stopped at the first door they came to and poked her head into the room, "Your things are in this room, Colonel."

He wanted to say something to her, but an inadequate, "Thank you," was all that poured out.

"It's no trouble," she shifted from foot to foot and moved to slide away before their interaction became awkward, "I'll see you in the morning, Sir."

She froze in mid-step when his hand flew out to seize hers.

"Wait," he whispered.

"What?" she turned to regard him curiously.

He was looking at her strangely. He often did that these days, but she'd never get used to the moments when she could see longing written clearly on his face. He was quick to let her reclaim her hand once he had her attention. The darkness of the hallway threw half of his face into shadow, but she could still see his mouth opening and closing as he mulled over his words. She raised an eyebrow and moved closer despite all the resentment and misgivings she'd been harboring.

"What is it?" she repeated.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," he whispered, "I know you didn't want me to follow you."

She glanced around at the empty hallway. They were completely alone, with nothing but the floorboards creaking beneath their feet. He was skirting a thin line, and she didn't mind at all.

Finally, she shook her head, "No. I think I do want you here. I'm not entirely certain."

The look he pinned her with was intense enough to strip paint. She didn't trust her mouth to form any sound that even resembled a word. Her grandfather's house only served to remind her that when she was a girl, her adoration for Roy Mustang had made her weak in the knees. She had since learned to compose herself, but that doodle-on-notebooks crush had turned into something stronger as well. One of these days it was going to be the death of her.

He wished he knew what she was thinking about. Did she also wonder what could have, should have been if their lives weren't unkind? Did she wish he was that someone else who had slept with her, or did she wish that someone else was him? He didn't know, and he couldn't ask her outright without revealing too many things he couldn't admit, all of which she probably already knew anyway.

It was rather silly actually.

"Since when does anyone know what they want, Lieutenant?" he grinned and touched her shoulder because he had to touch her, "Maybe things will be clearer in the morning."

She smiled a smile that showed her teeth. They were white, and she was beautiful, but nobody else would ever see her smile in the moonlight. He felt like she'd given him a secret.

"Sleep well, Sir," she walked away, still smiling to herself, and he watched her until she had disappeared into her own room.

He stood in the hallway for a long time after that, grinning deliriously, like a man in love. He wondered again just exactly what was and wasn't possible.


	5. The Lot of the Living

A/N – Dragging the pace just a little more. I wanted to make sure both grandfathers got their due in this chapter. Minor manga spoilers ahead.

* * *

**Chapter Four – The Lot of the Living**

_Of all the forgotten memories that she didn't want, there was one that persisted, and this one was an elusive animal that lurked behind every thought, bulletproof and inescapable. It rose like soap bubbles in disjointed fragments, and she fought with every breath to keep herself senseless. But now, even the pills would not drown out the pulse of reminiscence._

_If she closed her eyes, she was nine again, and the air of Isis was hot and waxy._

_She had been playing with her cousins in the Magnolia tree by the front of the house. She knew this much was true. Everything else might have been distorted by time and the fickle perceptions of childhood, but the Magnolia was solid. She clung to the vision of the tree like a woman adrift, clinging to a life preserver. When she thought about her father's house, she could still smell the bark and blossoms on her fingertips, sweet on the tip of her tongue and bitter in the back of her throat._

_She had many cousins. Her mother always considered it a grievous misfortune that they were all male, and she had never forgiven this slight against her precious baby girl. According to her, Riza's joining the military later in life was largely due to her lack of female companionship as a child. It wasn't, but it pleased her to think this, and her daughter didn't disabuse her of the notion. At nine, nothing her mother could say dimmed Riza's admiration for her cousins or her desire to emulate their behavior. She was strong enough to fist fight with them, able to punch a bullet through the middle of a target at 50 yards, and seemingly fearless. They adopted her into their pack without hesitation._

_Will and Curtis were the closest to her in age, so she kept company with them whenever they visited. The towheaded twins had mischief hardwired into the synapses of their brains, and she was fascinated by their pursuits. On that day, the three of them had already tired of teasing her baby brother, so they lounged, bored and alert, like big cats in the tree branches._

_She remembered how the shade fell on her skin, like the cold sighs of a ghost dancing in the blossoms. Will and Curtis flicked twigs at each other, and she dissected blushing blossoms. Wind licked at her burnt face and legs, and she didn't have a care in the world beyond the hummingbird and his ruby throat._

* * *

Roy awoke in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room under unfamiliar sheets that smelled freshly washed and pressed. Window-shaped squares of sun laced over the floor and crawled, catlike, across the bed. The light reflected off the mirror on the wall in painful white stabs, catching in his eyes and making him blink until they adjusted to the glow. His mouth was cottony and sour with sleep, and the foreign bed was incredibly soft. He pressed his face into the goose down pillow and sighed. This was why some people actually enjoyed sleep. He fully intended to nap for a few more minutes.

Except, there was something on his neck. At first, his sleep-fogged brain couldn't make sense of this, but as he regained his senses, he became increasingly aware of something warm and plushy wrapped over his neck and pressed against his cheek. He mumbled in annoyance and tried to roll away, but he was pinned beneath the furball. A tail twitched across his face, dusting his nose and eyelids. In response, a sneeze tickled inside his sinuses, forcing him awake against his will.

"Dammit."

With a groan of frustration he scrunched up his nose and sat up to sneeze, dislodging the cat at his neck in the process. She fell into an undignified heap on his lap, glared at him with the accusatory expression of angered royalty, and flicked her whiskers at him, displeased by the rude awakening. He mopped a hand across his face to clear away any stray cat hairs and unceremoniously pushed her off his lap.

"That was all your fault," he croaked when she turned up her nose and sauntered away.

The clock on the nightstand broadcasted 6:23. He knew it would be pointless to try to reclaim sleep, so he got up. The beige walls of the room swam in the light from the windows. Central mornings were never this bright. He stretched and nearly tripped over another cat that had sprawled out on the floor.

After he'd washed up and combed his hair in the tiny guest bathroom that attached his and General Grumman's rooms, he dressed carefully. What did one wear to impress Hawkeye's grandfather without making it seem like he was trying to impress anyone? How formal was too formal for a visit to a hospital? How hot was it outside? What was everyone else going to be wearing? He paced around the perimeter of his room once before deciding that agonizing about which clothes to wear had to be the most moronic waste of his time, and it was embarrassing, so he resolved to just pick something and throw it on.

He stumbled over the cat on the floor for a second time on his way to his suitcase and selected a pair of unobtrusive black slacks between muttered curses. The creature blinked its egg yolk eyes and went back to snoozing. He buttoned his shirt and gave it a dark look. Then he wondered absently just how many cats Mr. Hawkeye housed. If he could tip the estate upside down and shake it, how many animals would fall out?

He slipped into the hallway outside his room and realized with a surge of dismay that he had no idea where he was going. Mr. Hawkeye's house was large enough to need posted signs and maps, of which there were none. He descended the staircase at the end of the hall and wandered around the first floor rooms for what must have been a good half hour before he stumbled across another living soul, a portly maid dusting shelves in the library.

All of her impressive girth was balanced precariously on a flimsy ladder. She appeared to be struggling to reach a difficult spot when he approached. He offered to assist, but she gave him a pained look and told him with no small amount of scorn that she was perfectly capable of dusting the master's shelves on her own, thank you very much. He tried a different tactic, and asked her if anyone else was awake in what he considered to be his politest tone. She brushed a coil of steel wool hair from her forehead, and pointed him in the direction of the kitchen with an impatient frown.

He decided he didn't like her either.

She told him the master of the estate would be up at this hour, and when Roy finally found the kitchen, he discovered that the ill-tempered maid had spoken the truth. Jacob Hawkeye was seated at a cherry wood table in front of an enormous picture window that looked out over his expansive grounds. He had a pipe in one hand and newspaper balanced in the other. There was a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of him and three large, wolfish dogs at his feet.

Roy couldn't stop staring at the scene. The kitchen was as big as his office in Central. The walls were done in a pale cornflower blue, offset with hardwood trim. The glass fronted cabinets alone would have cost him a year's salary, and the dogs looked like they shared a very exotic and pricy pedigree. Mr. Hawkeye peered over the top of his paper and tapped his pipe against the table, "Good morning, Roy. Come in. Stay awhile."

Roy entered the kitchen hesitantly, "Good Morning, Mr. Hawkeye."

The dogs galloped over to inspect him. Roy offered his hands cautiously. He feared that if one was more than big enough to take him down, the three of them could completely dismember him if they decided to jump. And they seemed lively enough to jump. Mr. Hawkeye was quick to command order.

"Down!" He barked at the dogs, and they adhered at once. Then to him he said, "Would you like anything? Coffee? Tea? The cook should be up shortly."

"No, I'm fine," Roy was watching the dogs. They lost interest in him quickly, and trotted obediently back to their master. Mr. Hawkeye noticed his curiosity.

"The dogs are Drachman Borzois," he said, bringing his pipe to his lips again, "I bought them from a diplomat when I was up north five years ago. The man also raised beautiful Akhal Tekes. It's a pity that in my old age, I have no use for horses, especially given the efficiency of automobiles. My stables have been empty for years. I cannot feasibly house horses anymore, but the dogs are very elegant, are they not?"

Roy watched them jostle around the ornate legs of the table. They seemed to prance—all delicate legs, soft undulating coats and slender snouts—like carousel animals made to maul wolves in the wilderness of Drachma. There was something terribly seductive about watching deadly warriors with beguiling appearances.

"Yes," he agreed.

"Indeed," Mr. Hawkeye appraised his dogs critically, "I'm thinking about breeding the bitch. What do you think about that?"

Roy shrugged. He didn't know what he thought about that. What did Mr. Hawkeye expect him to think? He was not well versed on the subject of dog breeding, and discussing esoteric topics he didn't understand always made him feel inferior. Mr. Hawkeye's eyes thinned to the same width as his lips. Clearly, a shrug was not the correct response.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Roy, sit down," he thumped the table with his newspaper, "Just because breakfast isn't ready yet doesn't mean we can't sit and be sociable."

Roy obeyed. One of the beautiful ram-headed dogs nudged at his hand. He stroked its satin wrapped skull and traced the furrows behind its ears. Jacob Hawkeye sipped at his coffee and pulled thoughtfully on his pipe.

"You don't mind if I smoke, do you?" he asked.

Considering the pipe was already lit and in his hand, the question seemed rhetorical. Roy shook his head anyway. Pipe tobacco didn't smell as cheap as the commonplace cigarettes that Havoc liked to suck down to the filters. The musky smoke emanating from Mr. Hawkeye's pipe reeked of affluence and proper breeding, as ancient and fixed as the walls around him. Nicotine was nicotine, the same drug for the well-to-do, the ne'er-do-well, and everyone in between, but the package it came in was a measure of one's sophistication. He was reminded again that this stage was different, and he was not in charge of the man before him. Manners and pretensions dictated his every move.

"Are you sure you don't require anything?" Mr. Hawkeye asked again.

Roy shook his head again, "No, thank you."

They regarded each other from across the gulf. Mr. Hawkeye set down both his paper and his coffee and looked at him, occasionally puffing on the pipe, but always looking at him. He didn't say anything, and Roy began to wonder if he was ever planning on speaking again. He tapped his toe against the floor nervously.

"Was there something you wanted to ask me, Mr. Hawkeye?" he finally ventured.

The older man sighed laboriously, the way doctors often do before bringing up unpleasant subjects with their patients, "Yes, as a matter of fact. Perhaps you can clear something up for me because the General was very cryptic about the matter."

Roy froze, his foot suspended in mid-tap. _Oh no_. He was going to ask about his teacher, about his alchemy, about his role in the massacre at Ishbal. And what could he say when faced with such questions? He couldn't lie about knowingly killing hundreds of human beings for an unspecified and unjustifiable cause. He couldn't deny that he'd become exactly what his teacher hadn't wanted him to be, or perhaps more importantly, what his teacher's lovely amber-eyed daughter hadn't wanted him to be. He owed her, needed her, wanted her more than anyone. He'd never understand why she chose to follow him on his descent into Hell, but he wasn't about to make her stop. Someday when they were both dying on some distant battlefield, fighting another war with no name, he'd probably feel very guilty for loving her.

There was a certain dusty glimmer that floated in the eyes of murderers. There was a certain dream about a thousand bloody Ishbalens burning him alive that would still wake him in the night, and every bead of sweat clinging to his brow when he woke up gasping marked him for what he really was. There was a certain irony to all of it that he sometimes picked at like a kid with a worm, but cold irony did nothing to stave off the shuddering.

He braced himself for the interrogation.

But it seemed that Mr. Hawkeye had other topics in mind.

"What exactly is your relationship with Riza?"

His foot dropped with a clunk in the same instant that his heart rate decided to pick up. His brain bumbled stupidly over the question and absolutely failed to produce a worthy answer beyond a bewildered sounding, "Wh-what?"

Mr. Hawkeye's gaze leveled into something piercing, and it reminded Roy rather unsettlingly of his granddaughter's similar jelly-petrifying glare. They were almost exact replicas of each other, and both had the power to chill his blood, "Mr. Mustang," he murmured, "I have four sons and innumerable grandsons. Riza is my only granddaughter. I don't know what you know about her past, but you must know she is a wounded woman, and I will never forgive any man who takes advantage of her, even a man I know as well as you."

_'Even a man I know as well as you.' _Did they really know each other, or were they just pretending? He knew Mr. Hawkeye had been playing a power game disguised with niceties from the beginning, and now he knew why. If Roy proved to be a threat, it was not too late to cast him out.

He sputtered wordlessly, "I . . . we . . . Mr. Hawkeye, we aren't . . ."

"Do not insult my intelligence, boy," Mr. Hawkeye growled, "General Grumman has told me what he understands about the two of you, and he understands a great deal. I've also seen the way you look at her. I am not stupid and I am not blind. Whatever you have done, are doing, or will be doing with my granddaughter, you will be very sorry if you hurt her."

In other words, _"If you lay one unprecedented finger on my precious darling, you will wish you had never been born."_ Roy knew a veiled threat when he heard one. He wondered what Mr. Hawkeye would do if he knew that his darling was pregnant and suffering because of it.

He stared at the table in a desperate attempt to escape the hammer to steel gaze of a Hawkeye on the warpath. He almost wished this conversation was about Ishbal now. Almost. Talking about his Lieutenant was always preferable, in any context. He might as well drop his act of indifference toward her. Neither of them believed it.

"I don't plan on acting upon my feelings, Mr. Hawkeye, and I would never intentionally hurt her."

"Good," Mr. Hawkeye laced his hands together beneath his chin, "I'm glad we understand each other."

Roy bit the side of his mouth. In his opinion, Lieutenant Hawkeye was perfectly able and willing to pistol whip anyone who hurt her, with or without her grandfather playing protector, but he could see that the man was well-meaning. Jacob loved his granddaughter fiercely, and Roy could not find fault in anyone who loved her as much as he did. He understood Mr. Hawkeye's wanting to keep men like him away from her, but he had to wonder what he had meant when he called her 'wounded.' Was he missing something he should have known?

Another dog pressed its head into his knee. He scratched it behind the ears and frowned at the ripples in the cherry wood. He didn't like not knowing what other people knew about his lieutenant. If he was honest with himself, he knew his newly born jealousy was wrapped up in this feeling of discontent. He wanted to be the one who knew her best, the way she knew him best. They ought to know each other the same amount. He idly wondered if the dog he was petting was the female who would be a mother, whether she wanted it or not.

He didn't have time to ponder further because the cook and Lieutenant Hawkeye appeared at that moment.

The cook was carrying food. That was the extent of his observation of her. Hawkeye had his undivided attention from the moment she stepped into the room. He struggled to take in all of her appearance at the same time, without staring too obviously, but it was a nearly impossible endeavor. He was riveted.

Hawkeye out of uniform was always a sight for sore eyes, but now, all of his suspicions about exactly what she hid under said uniform were confirmed. Simply put, Hawkeye in a short skirt was a knockout. It wasn't immodestly short or a miniskirt by any standard, but it bared her legs nonetheless, and he only barely succeeded in stopping his mouth from falling open. He decided he could live with the heat and humidity of Isis for the rest of his life if it forced her to wear things like that. His only regret was the sight of her luxurious blond hair pinned back in the usual style. He also regretted the fact that there were two other people and three dogs in the room, and they all seemed to be watching him.

"Good morning," she smiled and sidled past Roy's chair to kiss her grandfather on the forehead.

Roy Mustang had wished to be a great many things in his life, but he had never wished he was an old man's forehead before. It was a very interesting experience. How could he have known her for so long and never once tried to kiss her?

"Do you know if the General is up yet?" he asked her over the plate of muffins that the cook deposited in front of him, "Should we wait for him?"

"I wouldn't," she exchanged a knowing look with Mr. Hawkeye, "My grandfather, General of the Amestrian military, a man trained to wake at the break of dawn for the better portion of his life, still enjoys his beauty sleep on days off. I have no idea how he does it."

"He is unfathomable," Mr. Hawkeye remarked, "You were up later than usual yourself Darling. Are you feeling alright?"

She reached for an orange and began to pry it open, "I'm fine. I've just been a little tired lately. You know how draining the holidays can be."

* * *

The hospital was only a ten minute drive away from her grandfather's estate. It was a modest sized building, set back from the main road and screened by a wall of pines, but it was bigger and more efficient looking than any hospital she had seen in all her years away from Isis. It had clearly been through several renovations since she'd seen it last. This hospital could afford to be somewhat decadent because its patrons hailed from the neighboring estates, and old money was a plentiful commodity. In an obvious attempt to seem less foreboding, someone had decided that the color scheme for the outer walls would be buttermilk trimmed with lilac, and someone else had arranged a cheerful display peonies, hyacinth and columbine on the lawn. She thought she even saw a hummingbird skipping over the tops of the flowers, but she couldn't be sure. It was very pretty, but the inside still smelled like a sterilized rubber band.

A young female orderly who was unnecessarily friendly with the Colonel issued them visitor's passes at the front desk, and Riza tried not to appear disgusted by what she considered to be a grave lack of propriety on the part of the other woman, or more grievously, the Colonel's suave responses. He was here to see a patient, not pick up secretaries. The very idea that she could possibly be jealous of his interest in another woman was laughable but still, the incident managed to sour her mood.

For his part, Mustang was far beyond noticing any woman who wasn't Hawkeye, especially considering the alluring nature of his lieutenant's current attire, but he was also helpless to resist any opportunity to preen his ego. He was just beginning to warm up to the attention when Hawkeye suddenly decided to cut in. He watched her with wide-eyed bemusement as she snatched up the passes and snapped something threatening at the orderly about wasting her time. She nearly scared the poor thing to death. Then she marched all of them away from the desk with a muttered oath that sounded suspiciously like, "My kingdom for a handgun."

That was very interesting. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who could turn possessive when provoked. He tried not to look too pleased by the thought.

Mr. Hawkeye led them to her mother's room, identifiable only by the pink slip of paper tacked to the door with the words 'Lydia Hawkeye' scrawled across it, along with the name of her doctor. Her grandfather rapped his knuckles against the door twice before sliding it quietly open to reveal a tiny room the contained a single bed, two chairs and a work counter crammed against one of the walls.

"Lydia?" he said, "I brought some people to see you."

The woman occupying the bed looked away from the open window and turned to smile at Mr. Hawkeye. Roy recognized her as Hawkeye's mother, even emaciated as she was, and he was relieved to see her cognizant. When the General said she was sick, he had not known what that would entail.

Lydia Hawkeye had never been an attractive woman, not even in the sneaky stop-and-do-a-double-take way of her daughter, but she wasn't terribly plain either. Her face was a handsome sort of face, the kind Roy often saw on women in mosaics or carved out in worn marble sculptures, but it was not a handsomeness that gave any striking quality to human flesh. Features that bespoke of purest Amestrian breeding were combined too harshly on her face, wide, triangular cheekbones, a roman nose and smallish eyes that quivered under platinum lashes. Riza had inherited only the better things, like the sensual curve of her mouth.

Her dry lips split into a grin when she saw the entourage Mr. Hawkeye had brought, "Dad! And Riza . . . my beautiful girl. Get over here."

Roy watched his first lieutenant submit to being petted and sighed over as if it had only been seven days and not seven years since she'd last seen her mother. Suddenly he understood the reason why she'd worn a nice skirt and the reason why she'd exchanged her modest posts for a pair of white gold hoops in the car on the way to the hospital. She had been arming herself for this treatment. Her mother pressed a flypaper palm to her cheek and drew her close to kiss her temples.

"I was hoping you'd come," she whispered.

"Hi mom," Hawkeye's voice was wash of softness he'd never thought her capable of, "How are you feeling?"

"Just seeing you makes me feel better child," Lydia fluffed her daughter's bangs like she was straightening a pretty lampshade, "But let's not talk about that right away. I'm sure I'll be back on my feet soon, so there is no sense in you worrying about it. Now, don't tell me that man behind you is Roy Mustang."

Roy started at yet another unexpected recognition, and yet again, he could only nod and feel like an interloper. Hawkeye sighed and flicked a brief glance in his direction. She didn't want to have to explain why he was there, but Lydia's eyes were already darting back and forth between them in a startlingly perceptive manner.

"Are you two . . . ?"

"No," Hawkeye said emphatically, "Colonel Mustang is my superior officer now."

She knew that still didn't explain what he was doing there, but her mother seemed to accept the rebuff. Roy's eyes tiptoed reluctantly toward the pair of grandfathers standing beside the door. One was grinning, and one was frowning. He wanted them both to stop looking at him. Being yo-yoed back and forth between chastisement and encouragement was beginning to rattle him.

"Lydia," Mr. Hawkeye finished glaring at him and spoke tersely, "I'm sorry to be leaving so soon, but I have some errands that require prompt attention. I'll leave these three with you and come back for them in about an hour."

"Yes, that's fine. You take care of whatever you need to do," her mother bid him goodbye, and he excused himself without another word.

"He is too kind, that man," Lydia smiled when Mr. Hawkeye had left, "Do you know he visits me almost every day? And now he brought you. Speaking of which, stop lingering in the doorway, General. I haven't seen you since August, and you can't even give me a hug?"

She didn't mention how long her daughter had been away, or the fact that had she wanted to, Riza could have seen her just as often as Grumman. Verbally acknowledging what they all knew to be true would have forced them to face her reasons for doing so in the oppressive environment of a hospital. All Lydia could care about was that Riza had finally come back to her, and she was determined to ignore the rest if it would keep her close.

The General embraced his daughter tightly, and his hands shook slightly when he released her. Roy shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the door. He was in the middle of something private, and he wasn't family. The only way to change that reality would be to become Hawkeye's . . . what? Boyfriend? Lover? Significant Other? Husband? He sized her up, noting the flat area that still showed no signs of pregnancy. Did she already have one of those? He was too damn scared to ask her because an answer would be inescapable and devastating. As long as he didn't know, he could still pretend there was no one else.

The lie was fragile, but it held him together.

"My voice is going," Lydia leaned back on her pillows, "Tell me about things at Central. Leave nothing out."

Hawkeye and Grumman took turns telling her anything and everything they could think of, but the subject that was plaguing both Hawkeye and Mustang, her pregnancy, never came up. Occasionally, they asked Roy to supply a few details, and he obliged, but for the most part, he watched them interact. The only interesting thing he picked up that he hadn't known before was that Hawkeye hadn't been seeing anyone in over five years. Or so she claimed. Two weeks ago, he would have rejoiced. Two weeks ago, he would have believed her. Now he felt only a dull throb of anger.

He also noticed that Hawkeye seemed to be skirting around the subject of her career. She talked at great length about her new apartment, her neighbors, good books she had read recently, but if she had to mention the military, she always slid immediately into the next topic with an almost frantic haste, running words over each other and slopping them together in what she must have realized was futile effort to draw attention away from a subject that consumed much of her life. There was little she could discuss at length that didn't somehow relate back to her job.

Grumman gossiped about the family, which nephews were getting married, the aunt who had moved to East City, and Lydia soaked up the news with the relish of a wilted plant being placed in the sun. Most of the names he mentioned meant nothing to Roy, except the name of Riza's younger brother. Robin's wife had just given birth to their first son, and they were hard pressed to leave Dublith at the moment. His only memory of Robin was a fragment, a scrappy little kid who used to show him the grasshoppers and crickets he caught. There would be no recognizing him now.

When the steady stream of stories came to a lull, Lydia spoke again.

"Riza," her mother turned the blankets in her hands apprehensively, "Could I see the sigil? Just once?"

Hawkeye blinked and glanced around at Mustang and Grumman. They had similar stricken expressions on their faces, and she supposed her own face was probably not as composed as she would have liked it to be. Presently, she became aware of the whispery touch of her shirt against her back. The array she'd come to think of as Roy's was always there just beneath a shell of fabric, but she often succeeded in forgetting about it for long stretches of time. The burned flesh had stopped stinging years ago, and it was laid out in such a way that she couldn't see it without the help of a few mirrors. Sometimes she cherished the tie that bound her to the Colonel, and sometimes she rather resented the nuisance. It was a beautiful sigil, but it was also her body, and she hated baring it to appease the curious.

This time, the curious party was her mother. There was only one suitable answer.

"Yes, of course."

She nodded her acquiescence and shifted to look at her grandfather. He understood her unspoken request at once.

"The Colonel and I will wait outside," Grumman ushered Mustang out of the room with a slight wave of his hand, and the Colonel complied.

Roy caught her eyes just as he passed through the doorway. Her fingers were already loosening the buttons of her shirt, and the look she gave him was both apologetic and paralyzing. He very nearly forgot himself at the sight, but he drew his bottom lip through his teeth and followed the General into the empty corridor.

Grumman closed the door behind them and paced over to a window at the end of the hall with a sigh, "It doesn't make a great deal of sense, does it?" He glanced back at the Colonel to make sure the younger man was still following him, "I know her back is nothing you haven't seen before but . . ."

"It's okay," Roy drew up beside him and watched a lone starling dart into a poplar outside, "I don't like to be reminded of what I did to her."

He'd marred her perfect, perfect body, willingly, and the feeling was akin to desecrating a church. Even the intricate array had been terrible and perfect, flawlessly transcribed on the milky sheaf of her back. She was effortless and statuesque as he remembered her. The wineglass curve of her waist. The soft golden hairs at the base of her neck. The soundless noise she made when she tried not to scream. She never screamed when he burned her. She knew her screams would have driven him mad.

Even after all the Ishbalens he'd killed. The General was right about one thing. It made absolutely no sense.

"She asked you to do it, didn't she?" Grumman stared out the window too, but he wasn't seeing the bird or the tree.

Roy jerked his shoulders up and down, "Yes."

The General was silent for an indigestible moment, "She would have found some else to destroy that sigil. She was desperate to have her back broken, and you know as well as I do that some of those soldiers, fresh from the war, with death in their eyes . . . They wouldn't have cared if they mutilated or killed her."

Roy tried to capture whatever the General was looking at in his frame of reference, but he could only see a horizon mottled with trees. The sky burned blue on their crowns. "She shouldn't have had an array carved into her skin in the first place. It's barbaric."

Grumman was still transfixed, "Perhaps not."

Roy knew a diplomatic answer was all he was going to get, but that knowledge did not quell the rising tide of indignation. Some of his teacher's ethics had never sat well with him, and what he'd done to his daughter was especially unforgivable. If he ever had children, he was certain he'd love them more than that. _If he ever had children_. He nibbled on all sides of that thought, afraid to take a bite.

"Lydia believes she is going to die," Grumman murmured.

"Huh?"

"I saw it in when she looked at me, and I felt it when I held her in my arms. She is already leaving me. If she wants to see the sigil again, that means she is preparing for death," The General traced a fingertip along the glass, tracing the memory that had pooled in his eyes, "Why must they all go before me?"

"Life is cruel," Roy replied. Cruel, unfair and torturously lovely.

"They say the dead feel no pain," The General continued, "It is us, the living, who are crippled by loss."

Roy nodded and watched the hummingbirds pirouette on the lawn. Loss was the hardest wound to bear, and he feared very much that he was losing Riza to forces he could not overcome. But he was far from giving up. There were very few things he actually considered worth fighting for.

She was one of them.


	6. Bleeding

A/N – The italicized flashback in this chapter comes right after the one in the previous chapter and deals with very sensitive subject matter. Proceed with caution, or skip it if you choose. Before anyone asks, I am not suggesting that any cousins fathered her child, and I am not suggesting that this could have actually happened in the manga/anime timeline, but for the purposes of this fanfiction, the events in her past play a big part in explaining her actions in the present.

Also, some slightly theological discussion takes place. I don't mean to insult, convert, offend or preach to anyone. Neither character is mouth-piecing my personal beliefs by any means.

* * *

**Chapter Five – Bleeding**

_The Ruby Throated Hummingbird._

_Her delight and her despair. _

_Nestled in the Magnolia with her twin cousins, she reminisced upon him._

_Riza thought her first hummingbird sighting would never leave her. The iridescent insect bird she'd seen yesterday had enthralled her with the buzzing blur of his wings and the delicate slope of his beak. The hummingbird was a dancer, hovering weightless, as if suspended on invisible hooks, backing up, side-winding, alighting (just for a breath) on a flower petal, and then hovering again, never growing tired. He was a master of his craft, and she loved him at first sight. Then Curtis had shown her his red-clot throat and told her the lie. The lie that she'd believed before she understood the mechanics of deceit. _

_Her beloved, prideful, flashy, dancing bird had sliced his throat because his own blood was the most beautiful crimson adornment, and now he was paying the price for vanity. If he stopped to rest, he'd bleed to death, and he could only fly until exhaustion claimed him. _

_Curtis believed his little story was rather clever at first, but he grew bored easily. She knew he'd already forgotten it. She had not._

_Her thoughts were still shattering like Christmas ornaments around her. She couldn't let go of the poor creature's fearful fate, and the more she tried to look away, the more it crept upon her. She tugged at this strange, new notion of 'suicide' until tears pricked at her eyes whenever it floated to mind. Why would anyone cut their own throat?_

_She had no way of knowing then that she wouldn't even begin to remember this question until she was a grown woman. This day and others like it were soon locked away in the deepest places of her memory, and her first hummingbird was sealed with them. The mind is almost too adept at protecting itself from wicked memories._

_"Hey," The children in the tree started when they heard a voice from below, "You kids up there!"_

_They peered down through the branches at the interloper. It was only Bobby._

_He stood grinning up at them with his fingers hooked in the pockets of his slacks, like his grip was the only thing holding them up. Years later, she could not readily call his face to mind, but she still remembered his fingers._

_"Are you guys going to come down and play or what?" he called._

_The twins looked at each other and slithered down the tree with the grace of spider monkeys. Their brother was twenty-five, and he owned a shiny automobile. He never wanted to play with them, so every opportunity was eagerly snatched. Riza padded to the ground behind them with a carefully blank face. Bobby looked at her once, but then he was talking to the twins again, sharing a confidence between brothers that she wasn't permitted to interrupt._

_"We can play cops and robbers," His suggestion was more like a command, but Will and Curtis snapped up the worm, hook and all._

_"Okay," Will grabbed her and held her to his side like a satchel, "It's us and Riza against you."_

_At the mention of her name, Bobby smiled politely at her, "Then I get to be the cop."_

_She leaned against the tree and watched with her arms crossed over her chest as the boys staked out the bases and the prison. There was nothing impressive about Bobby as far as she was concerned, and yet his brothers fell all over themselves to please him, like dogs clamoring for table scraps. When Bobby was around, Will and Curtis always ignored her. That in itself was enough to condemn him in her eyes._

_The exact details of the game were lost to the passage of time, swallowed up in a blur of unimportant events that flavor every life and leave no mark. They had run around the yard until the sweat glistened on their foreheads and necks, but that was the typical play of children. The important part, the part that stained her despite her mind's best efforts, happened behind the woodshed. So many things happen to so many children behind nondescript woodsheds._

_They were well into the game when the odd thing happened. Curtis was in prison, and she was following Will through the maze of weeds behind the shed. They were gasping for breath and shushing each other, caught up in the adrenaline rush that came with being chased. They hadn't been caught yet, but the police were still out. She was watching and mimicking Will's fawn-tiptoe until an unexpected hand clamped around her wrist like the closing of a shackle. She cried out in alarm, and Will skittered away with a yelp._

_"Well, well, well," Bobby laughed and pulled her backward in a flailing octopus tangle of limbs, "I've caught a little pretty."_

_Will laughed uproariously at his brother's witty epithet and slunk away, crowing the words at the top of his voice, "Riza's a pretty little girl!"_

_She felt her face heat up and her teeth bare. She wanted to scream that this wasn't true, but Bobby's hands were on her shoulders, pinning her indigence to the spot. She fluttered like a trapped butterfly, but it was only a half-hearted attempt to escape. She didn't believe Bobby would actually hurt her._

_"I need to search you, thief," he pressed a finger into her collarbone until she pivoted to face the shed, "Hands up. Against the wall."_

_She'd seen him do the same to Curtis before sending him to prison, so she complied, still growling about being teased. It never occurred to her that this would be any different. Even in memory, she knew her nine-year-old self had suspected no subversive designs in Bobby's actions. How stupidly, wonderfully innocent._

_Her cousin's hands were firm and large, like warm dinner plates, except she could feel his slithering fingers strumming her ribs. Ten smooth digits glided down her back and sides, teased her thighs, and circled to slide over the taut muscles of her stomach. It tickled. She jumped and tried to press away, curious and frightened of slippery things she couldn't explain._

_He laughed at her. She felt the rumble against her back. If there was one thing that could override her nervousness, it was teasing and derision. Perhaps he knew this._

_"What?" he chuckled, and she clenched her fists, "Are you scared?"_

_She pressed her lips together until they were white and shook her head vehemently. Her fists tightened until her nails dug crescent trenches into the flesh of her palms. She wasn't scared of Bobby Hawkeye. She wasn't scared of anything except death and dark cellars. The man behind her was neither of those things._

_"Good. Because you aren't allowed to scream in this game," he told her, "Or pretty little girl will be your new name."_

_She rested her forehead on the rough hewn timbers of the shed, determined to stop the twitch in her belly when his hand crept beneath her shirt. She thought about the hummingbird with the gossamer wings that Curtis had shown her yesterday. She thought about his opalescent blood and his desperate struggle to stay alive._

_Bobby's mouth panted hot and wispy on the back of her head, and his hands plucked at private places. One in the flax gold of her hair, and one beneath her pleated skirt, a horrible juxtaposition of what was affectionate and what was perverse. The woodshed smelled like pine resin and bruised her fingers._

_She remembered tiny green birds and wondered if it was possible to stop the bleeding._

* * *

She had a rifle in her hands when Roy found her behind the house. He had to smile at the picture she made, wielding an almost antique weapon that must have belonged to her grandfather with her incongruous little skirt rippling over her thighs. It was a pity he wasn't a painter. Or a poet. Poetry would slip around her like a gown. 

Her stance was flawless. Her entire body tensed on the trigger, rigid, disciplined, and sublimely shaped. The skirt made that last detail especially pronounced. He was suddenly grateful she didn't dress like that on the field. Something told him he would have been driven to distraction. She didn't even glance his way, but the slight twitch of her lips told him she knew his eyes were wandering. He was surprised she didn't turn the rifle on him given the coiled stress in her spine and shoulders. She was agitated, and if he didn't understand her body language, her severely drawn brows would have been a giveaway.

There were six plastic targets pinned to a post about thirty yards away. She leveled the weapon in her hands and fired six times. He didn't need visual conformation to know that all targets were toast. Instead, he watched her take the kickback without so much as a flinch, and marveled at the way the tension in her shoulders visibly drained away as she discharged the weapon. Hawkeye had an interesting strategy for dealing with stress. After one last calculating look, she lowered the rifle, apparently satisfied.

"What do you want, Colonel?" she asked after a time.

He flashed his teeth at her, "Just a moment of your time, Lieutenant."

"Oh?" She set about inspecting the rifle, but her eyes tilted toward him, "Maybe I can fit you into my schedule. How long of a moment are we talking about?"

He loved those elusive moments when he could swear she was teasing him, "I just wanted to talk to you."

Her hands slipped, sliding the bolt back with a jarring clang, "About what?"

Her back stiffened all over again, and her mouth hardened. There were so many things he had every right to bring up that she didn't want to discuss. Fight or flight instinct flared. The uncharacteristically jumpy look on her face alerted him to all of these unvoiced misgivings, and he backtracked quickly. He hadn't meant to make her nervous. Not yet anyway. Someday he was going to make her lose her composure completely, and he was going to enjoy every minute of it.

"Well you see, I keep having this dream," he leaned back against the split rail fence with a smirk, "And in it, I'm Havoc . . ."

She snorted, and he could tell she was arranging her face to keep from smiling, "Please not that again, Sir."

He crossed his arms over his chest and gave her a cunning pout, "It's a horrible reoccurring nightmare. You ought to have more sympathy."

"I'm sure," she shot him a look that was as much exasperated as it was amused, "But since you won't leave me alone, I suppose we could talk. Just give me a moment."

He waited while she put away the rifle and tried to formulate exactly what he was going to talk to her about. He knew what he _wanted_ to say, but he didn't think "Who the hell have you been sleeping with?" would be a good opening line, especially if she had guns on her person. No, he needed a more circuitous route. Broaching the plan he was concocting was going to take all the finesse he possessed. He wanted answers, badly. He wanted her, badly. And he didn't want her to know what he wanted. He didn't know if he could hold all of those cards close to his chest.

When she returned to him, he proposed a walk. They followed an old riding trail over the extensive grounds with no destination in mind and busied themselves with flavorless talk. They crossed acres of meadow that may have been fields once, but now the fallow land was being reclaimed, by wild grass and pine saplings. The still air puckered and swelled with the rising humidity. The lace-colored sky darkened, casting a reddish shadow and promising rain later in the day. The flies took that as their cue to bite, and the astringent smell of a forest before rainfall rose around them. They ran the risk of getting rained on if the sky decided to open, but he didn't care. Rain wasn't as bad with her around.

There was a dirt trail through a wooded area, and she led him along aimlessly. He marveled at everything from the rusty earth to the cluster of giant oaks springing out of it. The forest hummed like a well oiled machine holding its breath for rain. A fluttering wisp of tangerine drew his eye, and he stopped. A black-winged bird that looked like a piece of orange fruit was rustling through the branches of a young red oak, skipping, stopping, twittering and then bobbing along again.

"Oriole, right?" He looked at her, and she nodded, "I remember orioles."

Her face was quizzical, "You don't get out to the country very much do you?"

"No," he admitted, "It's been years. Your grandfather's estate is always reminding me of things I used to miss about Isis, like the orioles . . ." The little fire-tinged bird tilted his head and looked at them as if he knew they were talking about him before taking flight, "I don't think your grandfather likes me very much to tell you the truth."

This didn't seem to surprise her, "Grandpa doesn't like anyone very much. He and the General don't get along splendidly either," she sighed, "They are both wonderful grandfathers in their own ways, but they used to compete for my affection when I was a girl. You know, whose lap I'd sit on at family parties, whose present I'd open first at Christmas, or whose house I'd visit over the holidays. You probably didn't notice. It wasn't outright war, but I didn't like it after awhile, being made to chose who I loved more."

"It's a wonder those two didn't spoil you rotten," Roy chuckled just picturing Hawkeye as a pampered little girl, "What about your father? Didn't you love him?"

"I did, but . . ." she looked down and away, "You know how he was."

It was Roy's turn to feel uncomfortable. He knew all too well what her father had been like, and it shamed him. She never said it in so many words, but he knew what she was thinking. Her father had whittled his life away, obsessed with his alchemy and his research, until Roy had arrived. Then he spent his life absorbed in the training of his apprentice. At neither point was she ever a particularly important fixture, and Roy had never noticed this distance. Would that he had only realized then what he knew now.

"Were you ever jealous?" he asked softly.

"I'd be lying if I said no," she murmured, "But I never held it against _you_," Just her father. The dead were easy to blame, and there was very little she could hold against Roy. He had to have realized by now.

"I should have spent more time with you. I'm not sure why I didn't," he gave her a look that told her he found what his younger self had done to be inconceivable now, and it made something in her throat jump pleasantly. "I think I always assumed teacher's pretty daughter wouldn't give me the time of day."

She blinked, "You thought I was pretty?"

He scratched his nose, "I think you're gorgeous."

They were both aware of the tense shift, but neither of them commented on it. She swallowed and straightened her skirt compulsively. He wondered where she was hiding her customary handgun. Several scandalous options came to mind, and he enjoyed every one.

She stopped at a clearing where the woods broke into underbrush. Along the edge of the forest, there was a thicket of blackberries presided over by a lordly pair of blue jays. They yapped shrilly at the other birds who tried to encroach on their territory and screeched in alarm when the humans appeared. Then they were both gone in a flurry of blue.

Hawkeye was interested in the blackberries. She picked her way over the unruly ground cover that surrounded the bushes, and he watched her pluck a plump berry between two fingers. She turned it once in the light, and then popped it into her mouth without prelude.

"Sweet," she smiled approvingly and beckoned him over, "You like blackberries don't you?"

He found his way to her side, "I can't remember."

A berry was in his mouth before he had finished, accompanied by the light pressure of her fingers on his lips. He shuddered, noticeably so, and rolled the saccharine taste around between his teeth. It didn't matter. Hawkeye was looking up at him as if she knew what she was doing to him, smiling mischief in a very tempting package. He watched her with a mixture of astonishment and elation. Was she ever that bold with anyone else? God, he hoped not.

"Well?"

He gulped carefully, "I think I need you to do that again."

She raised an eyebrow, "I obey your orders, I watch your back, I keep you on task, I do half your paperwork for you, and I even submit to following your commands after hours. I am not going to start feeding you, Sir."

"Fine. Be the stick in the mud, Hawkeye," He drew his brows together, seized a branch, and de-berried it himself, as quickly as possible just to show he was capable.

Her eyes were half-lidded as she selected her own handful, carefully choosing only the fattest berries and watching him covertly. Wind toyed with their hair and stirred the blackberry leaves. He released the branch in his grasp, and the rebound whipped at his palms.

"Make sure you eat the ripe ones," she instructed, "Those are the sweetest."

He shrugged, "I like them sour."

"Really?" Her eyes widened, "You like sour things? That's weird."

He nodded and ate another. For some reason none of them tasted as good at the first, "No it isn't. You liking sweet things, that's weird."

She shook with silent mirth and licked her lips. Her tongue was purple. He told her so and got another laugh from her, soft and cool, like a hand against his cheek. Hawkeye had a very cautious dance with laughter. She rarely ever let down her guard enough for so much as a chuckle, and when she did laugh, it was hesitant, as if something inside her would break if she let it consume her.

They made themselves comfortable on the ground beneath the bush, bodies lazy in the heavy heat. He sprawled out with his head pillowed on his arms, the blackberries a perfect arm's reach away, and she sat beside him with her legs curled under her. He glanced at her—staring at something he couldn't see and brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear—and smiled. Why did she make him so happy? Even in the torment of his unanswered questions, she made him forget that there had ever been such things as death or anguish. Instead of being a reminder of Ishbal, she put him in mind of pleasanter things, respite, five drops of water in a land of choking sand and rancid blood.

His eyes gravitated to the shallow curve of her back, reminding him of something from earlier that day, "You never mention the military around your mother."

"No," her eyes folded shut for a moment, "She doesn't like or understand that part of my life, why I did it then, or why I'm still doing it now, and I know she never will. It's a bit like explaining to a dog or a cat why people dance. War and the dehumanization tactics of the military are not things that any sane human should understand, so I don't find fault in her naïveté, but she and I will never be the same. Soldiers like us have been desensitized to death and killing, and we can't go back to higher moral ground now."

His mouth took on his trademark frown of contemplation, "They say you can't understand that life unless you've lived it."

"Exactly. You and I, we know what it means to murder in the name of fierce, unyielding loyalty," she looked directly at him as she said this, "Not to Amestris though. Despite propaganda, people never kill for their countries. People kill for the sake of their comrades, the us or them mentality, and we love desperately."

"Love for one's comrades is strange and overwhelming," she smiled ruefully. Did he have any idea how impossibly strong her feelings for him had become on the battlefield? There were so many things she'd sworn she'd never do, but war changed everything. "We would die and we would kill for each other, and my mother has never looked death in the eye."

The Colonel nodded and picked another blackberry, "We are one. I'd do anything for any of my men, and woman," she grinned at him, "Without question. You are mine."

Of course, he meant, 'all of you are mine,' occupationally speaking, but she flushed nonetheless. Her only distraction from that thought was the blackberry bush. Colonel Mustang never meant anything exactly the way he said it, so she shouldn't have been surprised. He lived with a double entendre under his tongue at all times.

"This one looks sour," she scrunched up her face as if tasting it already and passed the offending berry to him, "Without question love. That is a good name for it. It sounds far better and greater than romantic or sexual love."

"It's not greater, just different. Desire can be pure, and the love between families and comrades can be twisted," he breathed in sharply and studied the smooth, white curve of her jaw, "And sometimes things progress to a certain point where physical contact is inevitable."

It was horribly, tantalizingly, impatiently inevitable, in a forbidden sort of way. He knew that now. They were closest in all ways except one, and even that didn't seem to matter sometimes. For one thing, he was already a jealous lover. She was denying him what he'd never asked for, and he was wanting what she'd never relinquished. At least not to him. Maybe not to anybody. It was hard to read her on this matter.

She turned her head, "There is nothing selfless or kind in the act of sex. It is always humiliating and unpleasant for one or both of the participants. People can be horribly cruel to each other."

Roy masked his alarm at her words surprisingly well, "Well, I guess if you think about it from an objective viewpoint, the mechanics of it are rather ridiculous. You must be vulnerable, and that does mean opening yourself to hurt, but if you find the right person, it's supposed to be . . ."

"Incredible?"

She was stripping a blade of grass, very intent on not looking at him.

He decided to see if he couldn't use that admission for information, "What makes you think that?"

She didn't take his bait, "It's just something I've been told."

He was struck forcibly by a memory from not so long ago, the way she had looked at him when they found themselves under the mistletoe taped to his ceiling. He could still remember. She had been fearful, embarrassed, shocked . . . expectant? She was waiting for him to make a move. Had he been missing that look in her eyes all along? It winded him like a sucker punch now. Someone else had taught her about things like kissing and love while he wasn't paying attention, and it never had to be that way. Did she ever think, as he was thinking now, that it should have been him?

He clenched his fists and nearly screamed at the injustice. She was still waiting. He was still holding back for fear that she would be shattered by his enemies if he pulled her closer. It was times like these when he almost wished he had a God, an all-knowing omnipotence that he could have a splendid rage at.

Hawkeye had a God. Suddenly he was very curious about that whole phenomenon.

He sat up, "Do you think I'll go to Hell for not believing in God?"

"Huh?"

"Hell. Do you think I'm going there?" This mattered a great deal to him all of a sudden.

"No." She didn't have to think about that answer, "I'm not even sure I believe in Heaven and Hell. Nothing as absolute as eternal damnation as punishment for a comparably short life of sin," here she smiled, "That's not exactly equivalent exchange, as you alchemists say. But I do believe that there is something greater than us, God, as you like to call it."

He leaned back on his arms and watched the wind play in the silver-bottomed blackberry leaves. It was hard to remember that there was snow in Central at this very moment. The leaves shook and flapped against each other like unwilling participants in a universal dance. That was what this whole God business amounted to, a spider web of predetermined lives. No creature deserved to be imprisoned by the shackles of fate. He needed a measure of control, even if it was only imagined.

His whole life, he'd been trying, in the heedless way of youth, to define and control the chaos that was humanity and existence. First, it was a simple matter of helping people. Then, during the war, he realized that it was actually a matter or helping the _right_ people. People were essentially good as individuals, but put them in a group and pin labels on them, and they could become monsters. He could fight until he couldn't remember what the war was about, or who started it, or even a name that wasn't a rank, but he couldn't stop once he started because war was too personal, and he always remembered her name. He thought he could translate the gibberish of the world into something that made sense. The effort only depressed him.

"What do people live for?" he asked her, very aware that he was skirting the line of her patience with an inquiry like that.

She blinked, "I don't think anybody knows the answer to that question, Sir. Volumes have been written on the subject . . ."

He rolled onto his palm, "Just humor me with your opinion."

She sighed. He watched her lips as she spoke, "Love. Everyone's got their own answer. Mine is love."

Love. He'd half expected her to say firearms. She was always so certain in her opinion of things.

"I don't," his sudden vehemence caused her to stare at him, "I don't have a reason like that, and I'm still afraid of death. I don't want to die without finding some meaning first, and even if I do, I don't think I'll be any less scared of that finality."

"We are all afraid of something," she whispered. He saw her eyes move unconsciously to her abdomen. "Perhaps all other things are just fear of death under a different heading."

There was a gentle pressure on her fingers. He'd caught two of them in a loop of two of his. The sudden creation of a palpable current between them was enough to pull her out of her musings with a start. She dragged her eyes from her lap to his face.

He examined her thoughtfully, "You _are_ afraid of this, aren't you?"

No need to ask which 'this' he was talking about.

Another hand moved up to trace the hollow of her cheekbone, and for a time they just looked at each other. Then, ever so slowly, she leaned into the touch like a timid cat, tentatively at first, but then her eyes slid closed, and she almost purred. Why did his touch never feel like an invasion?

"Tell me," his voice was low and soft, like chick down. She'd never heard that tone before. "Tell me what you're afraid of."

What choice did she have when he asked like that?

"I can't tell _her_," the words seeped out between his fingers, salty and long in coming, "She might die. How can I tell my mother on her deathbed? She wouldn't love me if she knew who I really was."

He regarded her curiously, "Because you aren't married?"

She shook her head, "It's more than that. This wasn't supposed to happen. He's not . . . I mean, he isn't . . ."

Roy sat up straighter. This was the first time she'd mentioned the father, a topic he wanted to know everything and nothing about at the same time. It was also beginning to distress him. This wasn't just some boyfriend he'd never met. This was a man who had quite possibly hurt her, and that notion brought on a blinding array of homicidal thoughts. Due process of law would be far too swift and painless if that was the case, and he knew his men would share his sentiment.

He couldn't think about that right now, or he'd go crazy. There was something else he had to ask her.

"This man . . ." he swallowed and nearly choked on the word. Goddamn this nameless man. "He isn't going to claim the child, is he?"

She shook her head. Somehow he had always suspected as much. He wondered briefly if she'd even told the father of the child's existence, but he figured that was her business.

"Would it help if . . ." He chose his next words carefully, "I know we aren't exactly a 'we', but we do get along, and it wouldn't be so hard to pretend that . . . that . . ."

"That it was yours?" She was charbroiling him with her eyes.

He nodded, "Mine."

The implications of that sunk deeper and deeper with no foreseeable bottom. His eyes were the culmination of the very darkest depths, where reason began to unravel and gravity crushed bones.

"Sir . . ."

He watched her scoot away and knew he'd made a very dangerous mistake.

"What? Why is that wrong?"

"Because it isn't true!" she hissed, "I don't know what you'd like it to be, but I can't let you delude yourself. I'm not worth the ramifications of you claiming an illegitimate child. I won't let you throw away your career with both hands. I simply won't let you."

"I'll decide what is and isn't worth it, Lieutenant!" he snapped, but it was more from the bitterness of being spurned than an infallible counterargument. She was right. She was always insufferably right and fair, never passionate or emotional.

"Just tell me this," he grabbed her shoulder and drew himself closer, "Tell me who I have to thank for taking you away from me. He did an excellent job of it, touching you, taking you, and then leaving you with something that will pull you away from the military, away from my side when I'm useless without you! Tell me his name, and I will _appreciate_ him."

His eyes were so frightening.

"You could ruin everything you've worked for, Colonel—"

"Why? Is he some goddamned military higher up?" he snorted derisively at his own joke, "Have you been sleeping with the brass to further my ends? Why Lieutenant, I'm flattered."

"Stop it!" she wrenched herself out of his grasp, and for a moment she looked so murderous he could almost feel the lead in his chest.

"This baby _isn't_ yours, Colonel," she snarled, "You are making this _hurt_!"

And then she was up and walking away. She didn't run. Lieutenant Hawkeye never fled from battle. She walked away like the victor, with her shoulders squared. He didn't follow her. He stared ahead with his lips pursed, and touched his temples where he could feel a headache building. Neither of them had won.

* * *

**Midway Point Thanks and Praise**

Thank you to all the people who are reviewing, and thank you to all the people who are just reading. Especial thanks to Tarotgoddess who told me it was good before I posted it.

Thanks to Maya Angelou for "Humpty-Dumptied" and thanks to Yann Martel for the idea of tipping the estate upside-down. And most importantly, thanks to Hiromu Arakawa for FMA. It rocks my socks.


	7. The Tulip Glass

AN - As stated before, I don't believe any of the events in this story could possibly be canonical, but for the sake of an interesting story, I bended a few of the common conceptions people have about certain characters. Many people have assumed that Riza had other relationships before Roy, I've just elaborated on some of them. Thank you for putting up with my experimentation.

And a nod to Dailenna, who guessed correctly, even if she was only joking.

* * *

**Chapter Six – The Tulip Glass**

_The day after the events behind the woodshed, Riza took up a pair of garden shears and cut her hair herself, much to her mother's deepest chagrin. The result was a sloppy hodgepodge of long and short pieces of hair sticking wildly out of her scalp. She looked like a hay bale, but she was satisfied with her work. She only needed to be rid of what Bobby had touched._

_She received a slap across the mouth for her efforts, but nobody asked her why she had done such a thing. It was just like a child to do something irrational for curiosity's sake. Will and Curtis were thought to be coconspirators, an accusation they were loath to deny. They didn't even have the sense enough not to giggle when she traipsed in through the backdoor looking like her hair had been a casualty in a terrible accident, and they probably thought it was extremely funny to claim responsibility for the calamity._

_She was dragged by her ear to the hairdresser's, where a woman with long, red nails primped and prodded the mess. Riza felt very sorry for this woman who had to deal with her irate mother, but she regretted nothing, even when the bloody red nails took up a proper pair of scissors and snipped at the rest of her hair until all the strands were evenly shorn. As per to her mother's request, the woman tried to make it resemble a pixy bob, but Riza, who silently observed the rescue efforts in a mirror, knew that the hair she had left was not going to conform. It was going to be very short._

_She was left with a cap of soft blond fuzz, rather like a kitten's fur. Her mother lamented the loss of her hair like the loss of a third child. Riza ran her hand across her head, engrossed in the tactile sensation of weightlessness. Surely, Bobby wouldn't think she was pretty now._

_The twins whooped and cheered when they saw her new boyish hairstyle, and the rest of her cousins agreed that her hair was the very height of awesome. She sought Bobby's eyes in all the commotion, driven by a reckless impulse to see what he thought of her impudence, but he paid her no attention, just like before. It was as if she'd dreamed the bizarre events of yesterday, and it was easier to believe that she had. She'd fallen asleep in the Magnolia and dreamed that he had touched her in the sticky sweet heat, and he still didn't remember her name._

_She decided it was a dream best forgotten and cast it resolutely aside. There was nothing to be gained by puzzling over the meaning of the abstract, because the abstract was ugly. Suicide. Pain. Shame. Depravity. Beautiful things bleeding at the throat._

_She moved deftly from shooting inanimate targets to hunting game with her cousins. Riza Hawkeye cut her hair and shot down partridges, and the changes that marked maturity made her feel very young and silly. Her life coalesced and spooled around a hard little nucleus of silliness. She scraped off layer after layer, but there was never any point._

_Until she met Roy Mustang and fell helplessly in love with him._

_She didn't even see it coming. As far as she was concerned, she'd never ever like a boy in _that_ way, not after Bobby's less than perfect introduction into what _that _was all about. Then Roy came to study alchemy under her father, and it was as if she'd discovered a whole new gender that hadn't previously existed. Roy was so much more than just any old boy. He was Roy, and she loved him. Or rather, she loved him in the fantastic way of a lonely eleven-year-old girl. Senselessly._

_She fell in love with the way his dark eyes moved and the way his hands gestured when he talked. She loved his lazy smiles, his dry wit, and the way he never called her anything but Riza. Not Pretty Girl or Baby Girl or Darling. Just Riza._

_He never touched her more than she wanted either, and his respectful distance made her grow fonder. He didn't casually lay his hands on her shoulders or playfully tousle her short mane of hair. He didn't even gaze at her for too long when he spoke. She observed him with the wary wonder of a stray dog puzzling over the enigma of affection and imagined whole futures that involved just the two of them together. Just Roy and Riza. Their names strung together nicely._

_When her father died, it was only logical for her to follow him. To protect him. She didn't know why, but she knew he needed it. He needed her._

_Her mother would have preferred her doing something safer, but her mother's opinion never held any sway with her. Her mother ignored her for long stretches of time, unless she wanted to dress her up or parade her around. Her grandfathers doled out much craved attention and affection whenever they came to visit. They praised her for her innate talent with guns, so she became an excellent shot. She became even better when she knew she had to follow Roy._

_She made her choice, and the military snapped her up eagerly. Her grandfathers approved, as she knew they would. Their approval was all that mattered. One of her grandfathers boasted an upstanding military career of his own, and the other was proud to have his spirited granddaughter in the service. It didn't seem especially difficult to make a living shooting guns, and sometimes she regretted the simplicity of her vocation, but her skills were the envy of the regiment. And Roy was there somewhere._

_Her infatuation embarrassed her. _

_The academy was a stunning dance of bullets. She trained to be a sharpshooter, one of the elite, but the fact that she was being hand-groomed to hunt human targets didn't strike any deeper chord within her. Her mind didn't equate the concept with the reality. She only knew the simplicity and the grace of hitting a mark dead on. It thrilled her on a visceral level._

_Then she learned that war was death for all involved, death of soul, death of conscience, death of bodies, and her body, she soon learned, was a commodity. She was one of very few women in a war-torn world of men, and she was pursued doggedly, sometimes outright brutishly by lonely soldiers with very few distractions from violence. A battlefield, like a prison, changed all the rules about what men will and won't do for a little pleasurable company._

_In her case, men who got unmanageable learned quickly that the pretty blond girl who looked too young and soft for battle was the object of particular interest for a General. In those first few months of war, she had not yet developed the coarseness and the feral sense of self-preservation necessary to deliver swift or violent rejection if the need arose. Interested men could sense this, but General Hakuro did not suffer their advances for long. She was grateful, and she was indebted._

_He liked her in particular, and his specific attentions were both divine and distressing in a simultaneous bundle. He protected her to the fullest extent of his rank, and he always seemed to have offerings that most soldiers would have given their eyeteeth for a taste of: red wine, fresh cheese, and clean linens that weren't infested with sand. She didn't ask herself why he was so kind to her. She knew the answer. She knew Bobby's answer. She just didn't think about it. When he touched her back or arms with heated intent, she didn't think about it. What was and wasn't acceptable behavior for a commanding officer when war was erupting in every direction? Did her body even matter when thousands were dying? She didn't know enough, and the things men wanted where silly and dreamy anyway. She didn't think about them._

_She didn't find it all too surprising when, two weeks into the war, he took her to his bed, softly, insistently. If anyone else knew, they never said a word. Nobody questioned their Generals on the battlefield. If one of them wanted to keep a pretty little pet, _technically_ it wasn't spelled out as forbidden in the rule books. Loop holes jumped to attention before powerful men. _

_She learned the rules of this arrangement quickly. Don't talk, don't think, don't get caught, go out, fight, and then repeat. Blissfully simple. His tent was clean and spacious, and he was never cruel. She grew accustomed to his hands fluttering like drunken moths across her skin, fisting her wrists in a tight grip and pressing her down. Then his damp lips against the shell of her ear, telling her he loved her even though she knew this was a lie. He must have thought the words would placate her, but she was already entombed in apathy. Ishbal was another dream, and a silly one at that._

_There was still a lingering thought of Roy, but sex and love did not relate. She could love her dark haired boy and sleep with the General, and nothing about that arrangement seemed terribly wrong until she met him again on the battlefield._

_She met Roy again. She woke up. Everything was wrong._

* * *

Lydia Hawkeye's death abbreviated the visit to Isis. 

Her condition worsened in a matter of days. The hospital, the best in Southern Amestris, simply lacked the resources to treat her. She passed quietly and with dignity. The doctors assured them of this like a mantra. Hawkeye and her grandfathers were treated to a parade of half-hearted condolences and timid hand pats when the news was delivered. The funeral was the next day.

It was a small black affair. Riza stood between her grandfathers, and felt oddly detached. Midway through the service, her stomach clenched and rolled fitfully. The landscape smeared, grass, casket, sun, like a triptych in abstract, or the holy trinity of nausea. She excused herself to find a bathroom, was sick, dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a wet cloth, and thought about mothers.

Mothers had been having babies since the beginning, so why did the process still seem so wholly unnatural? She didn't even like babies. Was that natural? Even when she was a child, other girls lugged around baby dolls with names like 'Madison' or 'Abigail,' and she had never understood Her first rifle had been christened 'Cleo' but she didn't think that was the same thing. She liked her grandfather's horses, the books in the library, and the hummingbirds on the lawn. Not babies.

Looking at herself in the mirror above the washroom sink, she wished she had been more interested in those dolls. What help were hummingbirds when there was a new person inside her? Did all mothers feel this overwhelmed or just the ones doomed to be incompetent? If only she had her mother now. Lydia would have soothed everything over. Lydia would have stroked her hair and told her about everything beautiful in the world.

Lydia was dead.

She touched her temples and went back to the gravesite.

Roy watched her hurry away and then return with unveiled concern, but he knew she would not allow him to approach. She had stood apart from him on purpose, and he was just as angry. Everything hurt, from the ground against his feet to the cantaloupe wind in his nose. Crows gathered in mobs on the branches of the maples and muttered darkly to each other in hushed voices. An irreverent meadowlark interrupted the solemnity with a cheerful burst of warbling. He wished she wasn't pregnant.

There was nothing left to keep them in Isis, so they returned to Central without delay. Hawkeye wanted to work. Mustang wanted a merciful death. He supposed his beautiful Lieutenant would deliver if he set aside his paperwork.

He saw the window on the night before their departure from Isis.

He wouldn't have noticed it at all if it wasn't stained glass, the first stained glass window he'd come across in his explorations. Hawkeye had mentioned a stained glass window at her grandfather's estate once before. This had to be it.

It was cloistered away above the landing of a passage-like side staircase. He was climbing the creaking steps with a box full of alchemical research notes. Mr. Hawkeye had given him access his library, and told him it was perfectly fine if he brought some notes back to Central with him. Nobody else was getting any use out of them, so Roy decided to paw through a few stacks and look for anything worth taking. It was a good way to get Hawkeye off his mind.

Except, he saw the window.

It was little, octagonal in shape, and it depicted a hummingbird. There was nothing extraordinary about it at first glance, but the more he studied it, the more it interested him. The glass wasn't good quality. It was almost completely opaque in places, but the craftsmanship was careful and neat, and the black in the bird's eyes seemed to capture a certain expression. It was fluttering over a buttery gold background, and there was a teardrop of magenta at its throat. He could see why Riza liked it.

He traced the edge of one emerald wing with a fingertip and moved on.

* * *

Central was snowy and dreary. 

The office was a cyclone of late paperwork that needed to be completed immediately. The instant he walked through the door, he was greeted with the sight of a large stack on his desk that was at least three times its original size. His subordinates gave him slightly apologetic greetings and quickly occupied themselves with tasks that would not incur their Colonel's wrath. They weren't sure if the paperwork, the weather, Lieutenant Hawkeye's icy demeanor, or some combination of the three would set him off, but none of them wanted to be nearby when the inevitable explosion occurred.

Roy didn't care a great deal about what his subordinates thought. The only person who mattered was quietly going about her work without even glancing his way. She hadn't spoken to him since they'd exchanged hellos, and now she was ignoring his very pointed stares in her direction. Her obvious refusal to acknowledge his gaze was making him grind his teeth, and the teeth grinding was beginning to make his head hurt.

When lunchtime rolled around Maes Hughes decided to stop by for a visit, and his headache only worsened. Everyone else had fled to the cafeteria, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his paperwork. Even Hawkeye had strolled out with a vague announcement that she wouldn't be back from the range for at least an hour. Hughes surveyed all of the empty seats and sighed. So it was bad enough that everyone felt the need to run?

He seized the nearest chair, pulled it over to Roy's desk, and plopped himself down. The Colonel tried to appear extremely busy. Hughes didn't seem to notice.

He straightened his glasses and leaned back comfortably, "I take it you aren't going to have lunch with the others."

Roy bowed his head over the nearest document, "No."

_Ah_. Hughes scratched his chin and watched a glower formulate like a storm cloud on his friend's brow. This was definitely about the girl. For all his charm, Roy was often completely inept at communicating with the one woman he actually wanted.

"What's going on with you two?"

Roy looked up, "Me and Hawkeye?"

"No, you and Alex Armstrong," Hughes deadpanned, "Tell me what happened in Isis."

"Her mother died," Roy went back to checking boxes as if that remark ended the conversation.

"Yes, I heard," Hughes was beginning to want to rip those papers off the desk, so Roy would have to pay attention, "But what about the two of you. I thought the trip would help you resolve things, but you're still avoiding each other."

"We might have fought again," he confessed to the desk in an undertone, "I think I'm angry with her. It's like I can never say the right thing. By all accounts, I should just drop this entire mess. She clearly doesn't want my help. But I can't let her go."

"You seem surprised," Hughes rocked back and watched the winter sun dribble out from behind a cloud and spike through the window with a stinging severity, "We all could have told you that. Everyone knows Colonel Mustang would be the last man to desert his comrades, least of all her."

Roy shook his head, "No, I'm not surprised. Just disappointed in myself."

He glanced at Hughes. He could tell by his expression--the narrowed eyes and the drawn mouth--that he was preparing to say something he wasn't going to like. He had a pretty good idea what it was going to be too. He'd been playing hide-and-go-seek with the notion for a while, but now Hughes was going to bring it up, and he couldn't escape. Why couldn't he stuff his fingers in his ears? _La la la not listening . . ._

"Did it ever occur to you that she may have been--"

"Yes!" he stabbed violently through Hughes's conspiratorial tone before he could go any further, "It has occurred to me quite frequently, so please, just don't say it."

Hughes met his eyes and nodded. In that single moment, Roy knew his friend understood the confusion and the rage he could not put to rest. Pure, undiluted aggression was starting to tighten his nerve endings whenever the thought of someone hurting her crossed his mind, and he didn't need it spoken aloud. How could anyone? How could _she_? He doubted she would have breathed a word about it if pregnancy hadn't resulted, and that was even more frightening. How long had something been going on? How could he not have known?

He gave voice to this last train of thought, "What I don't understand is if she was, why wouldn't she tell anyone? That's what doesn't make sense."

Hughes shrugged, "She told you."

"She didn't tell me _that_. She only told me she was pregnant."

"But she did come to you," he pointed out. "She came to you when she was frightened, probably more frightened than you realize, and maybe that was all she could say."

"So I was supposed to just figure it out?" Roy snorted, "That's not exactly the first conclusion I usually jump to."

"Maybe you weren't supposed to figure anything out. She might have had reasons for not telling you," He leaned forward, watching the sun again as it traversed the office walls, "Rape is not always as simple as being attacked by a stranger in the park. I mean, she carries guns and ammo on her person at all times. Do you really think she'd let any old rapist get near her?"

Roy frowned. Hughes had a point, and it was distressing. There were so many things that weren't adding up, and he was beyond useless if he didn't know what was going on.

He spread his hands in a gesture of utter loss, "What if she never tells me what happened?"

Hughes gave him a pitying look, "You need to talk to her again. If you continue to avoid each other, you will lose her," he smiled slightly, "And Lord knows, I don't want to have to put up with you if you lose that sniper girl."

* * *

After mulling over his talk with Hughes, Roy decided to pay his Lieutenant a visit. Actually, the decision was sort of spur of the moment, but he preferred to think that he meant to do it. 

First, he had ordered her to go home. Normally, she would have argued with him if he tried to send her away, but today she had given him a level look, packed up her things, and sauntered out wordlessly. As he watched her leave, he had an insane urge to start ripping things. Instead, he had holed up in his office for three more long and grueling hours of self-inflicted paperwork. Night was well established when he finally wrapped up his torture.

It was after these three stir-crazy hours at the office that he made his impromptu trip to her apartment. One minute he was heading home, and the next, he was trudging up the snow-covered stairs leading to her building with a gap in his memory where the explanation of how he'd arrived there was supposed to be. He was surprised he even knew where her apartment was. He'd only visited the place twice before. It was as if his feet had simply decided to act independently from his higher brain functions.

He stared at her door for at least a minute trying to pull together some shred of a plan, but thoughts evaded him at every turn. Finally, he decided to see if she was home and take it from there.

He knocked, waited, breathed. She answered the door looking slightly dazed. Wisps of her hair were falling from her bun, framing the contours of her face and resting against the side of her mouth. His fingers twitched, but he trapped them in the confines of his pockets. The temptation was thankfully relieved when she brushed it back from her face in one unconscious motion.

"Hi . . . I uh . . ." he scratched his neck, "I just . . ."

She opened the door wider, "Come in."

Something was amiss about her, but he couldn't place it. She seemed much more nonchalant, but maybe it was just her attire. He'd never seen her in slippers before. He'd never seen her look at him like that before either. He wondered if she even realized her fingers were still resting against her jawbone from when she'd swept her hair aside. It was as if she'd forgotten to complete the motion.

She stood back, and he stepped inside. She leaned against a wall and watched him process her apartment. It hadn't changed since he'd seen it last. It was still Spartan and serene. It still hummed with a warm memory of her touch on every panel and surface. There were only a few lights on, and a large cardboard box was lying open on her kitchen table. There was also a glass beside the box. A small, upturned tulip of a glass that he recognized for what it was.

He noticed the half-empty bottle as he was shrugging off his coat. It was sitting on the counter upright and capless like a little glowering gnome just waiting to be noticed. Shock boiled through him and came out in a small hiss of surprise. He looked at her harder. Other than a strange murkiness in her eyes, she appeared completely lucid. She always hid things remarkably well.

She read the direction of his gaze and produced the bottle cap, seemingly from thin air, "Was there something specific you wanted Colonel?"

He wanted to know how much had been in the bottle before tonight. She looked down at the cap she was flipping between her fingers, half entranced, half bored, like something feline playing with a mouse. White light warnings flashed behind his eyes. Careful. Careful. Proceed with caution. He approached her slowly, as if she might bolt at any moment, but she didn't move.

"Hawkeye," He slid his fingers into her palm and extracted the cap without a sign of protest from her, "Did something happen?"

She made a strange barking sound that might have been a laugh and moved past him to sink into a seat at the table, "I called my Grandpa in Isis. Told him I was pregnant. He didn't take that too well."

Roy followed her and dragged up a chair beside her, "What did he say to you?"

"He told me I need to marry the father," She laughed again, dragged her fingers through her loosening hair and laughed like that was the funniest thing she'd ever heard, "I need to marry the father of this child, or my grandfather won't speak to me again."

Roy didn't find the news at all funny, "What?"

She continued, spilling out a truth he didn't expect, "But that's not going to happen because he's already married."

"What!?"

He knew it had to be the alcohol that was making her so forthcoming. He knew that, and yet, this revelation stupefied him. Married? What did that mean? What the hell was going on?

Hawkeye rambled on, oblivious to his shock, "Oh yes, that's the truth, Roy Mustang. He is married, and he wouldn't leave his wife even if he wanted to. How's _that_ for pleasant? There better not be such places as Heaven and Hell, because you're not the only one who thinks they wouldn't make it past the pearly gates."

She lunged for the glass in the center of the table, but he snatched it before her fingers closed around the lip. Her face fell into a disappointed frown. He glared back at her contemplatively with the glass now safely in his possession.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"Does it matter?" She stood up, pounced on him, and tried to wrest the tiny vessel from his hands, "You drink. Why can't I?"

It wasn't easy to fight her off. Her movements were listless and uncoordinated, but she was tenacious in her pursuit. And strong. Drinking had not dampened the iron pull of her grasp in the slightest. Soon the little skirmish over the shot glass had turned into a battle that each was determined to win.

"It matters because I know you don't," He leaned back, holding the glass out of her reach until she had practically climbed into his lap in her attempts to reclaim it.

When they were face to face, she suddenly stopped. She seemed to realize just what she was doing, and he saw something unbelievable flicker to life in her eyes. He'd seen desire in other women's faces before, but never in Hawkeye's. He'd scarcely dared to hope that she could possibly want him, but the look she was giving him left little doubt. Her fingers relaxed their death-grip on his forearm, and he forced himself to swallow.

It was downright criminal for someone to be so appetizing. He could close the gap so easily. He could lean forward and kiss her. Or she could kiss him. Either way, his thirst would finally be quenched. He could kiss her . . . and then . . . and then . . . Oh God, her eyes were so catlike . . . and her inhibitions were alarmingly low . . . Thoughts drained away from his brain, trickled down his spine, and pooled into his lap. This was going to be embarrassing if he didn't do something quickly. _Dead rats. Dead, maggot-infested, unsexy rats._

He sprang up from the seat and shoved her away.

She reeled back with the glass in her hand--how had that happened?--and braced herself against the edge of the counter. From there she watched him, with an expression that was hedging on smug, for another reaction.

He was going to have to bring up the thing he didn't want to mention, both to chill his veins and instill some sense in her, "You shouldn't because of your condition, Hawkeye. You know you shouldn't."

That had the desired effect. She froze and looked at the glass. After moment she set it down without a word.

But watching her was heartbreaking. She slumped into the counter as if she'd lost the will to stand and the feeble guise of sobriety she'd been trying to take refuge in. She let all the trappings fall away, and he recognized the naked look in her eyes from a time he'd tried everything to forget. The terror and uncertainty when she'd pleaded with him to kill her after Ishbal stirred to the surface. Forlornness in her eyes was just as foreign and disconcerting now as it was then. She wasn't supposed to be this way. If his bastion could be broken, what chance did he have? He couldn't stand it.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She clearly hadn't expected that, "About what?"

"About everything," He raked a hand through his hair and eyed the bottle on the counter hungrily, "Anything I've done. I'm sorry for it all. I only wanted to help you, but I seem to have done a bang up job of it."

Her eyes lost focus, and for a moment, he saw a woman drowning. He couldn't figure out where she stored all the pain when she was sober, or how she'd kept it from him. Was he so absorbed in his own problems that he hadn't even noticed?

"What do you want from me?" he asked her, "Tell me what you want me to do, and I will do it for you."

"Stay with me," She swayed toward him, wobbled, and had to brace herself on his shoulder, "Don't let me hurt myself anymore."

"I won't leave," He gave in and tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, "Believe you me, I won't leave you alone now."

With that, he took her wrists and guided her out of the kitchen area. She spared one last look at the glass and fumbled after him obediently. They passed the living area with its comfy sofa and creamy glow cast by the reading lamps. He continued to pull her along.

She glanced around in bewilderment, "Where are you taking me?"

"To bed," he grunted.

She hesitated, ". . . Sir?"

"To _sleep_, Lieutenant. Now if you would be so kind as to show me the way . . ."

He stopped at the sound of a giggle, and turned to find her shaking with silent mirth. He would say this for her unprecedented binge. It made her a lot less concerned about the propriety of her superior officer tucking her into bed, and it made her easier with the laughs. Nobody would ever believe him if he came to work saying he'd witnessed her giggling. Where was a camera when he needed one?

He found her bedroom with little help from her. The sweet gunpowdery scent of her apartment was strongest here. He breathed it in, savored it between his teeth, and knew she was already becoming his undoing. He'd always associate the acrid smell with a beautiful woman until the end of his days. It was classic conditioning in its purest form.

Gun.

Woman.

Salivate.

He pushed her lightly and she folded, wet towel boneless into her bed. He followed, unable to pull himself out of the haze of pure shock when she latched onto one of his arms and pulled him down to sit beside her. It didn't escape his notice that they were again in a position that could become compromising in a matter of seconds.

"H-Hawkeye?" He pulled nervously at his collar.

"Hmm?" She began to undo the clip that held her hair in place, "Colonel, what would you name your first child if it was a boy?"

Trepidation gave way to surprise, "You're asking me?"

Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, yellow as pounded gold and crimped from being pinned up, "Yes. I guess I am."

He stuffed his itching fingers in his pockets again, "Thor."

"What?" One of her eyebrows bounced up, "What kind of a name is Thor?"

"A good one," He defended, "I think it's very strong and manly."

"Be that as it may, I am not naming my child Thor," She crinkled her nose and placed a protective hand over her stomach, "It sounds like someone who ought to carry around a big hammer."

He stared at her and tried to sort through the mesh of contradictory thoughts. This was the first time he'd seen her show any sort of affection for her unborn child. He was shaken to the core, both by the beauty of Hawkeye as a mother and by the longing for it to be untrue. Already, she was bonded with her child, whether she realized it or not, and soon her first love and devotion would be for her baby. He knew it was wrong to be jealous, but he didn't want her torn from him. Not yet. He wasn't ready to surrender his place in her world.

Of course, it would be so much different if she was his, and the child was theirs . . .

"I always liked you, Roy," She leaned back, and the sight of her looking up at him with her haunting halo of hair fanned out beneath her was enough to make him forget how inebriated she was. His first name on her lips didn't help, "You weren't like the others . . ."

She sighed and closed her eyes momentarily, as if fighting a memory, "You would never hurt me."

He shook his head, trying to clear the enticing picture she made from his mind, "Never."

There was an unspoken promise in his voice. He wouldn't let anyone else hurt her either. Never again. Always, _she_ had been the one to protect _him_. She was never vulnerable enough to need any sort of reciprocation on his part, and she never appeared to be anything but fine. He'd always felt weaker, but maybe they were both weak, because of and for each other. This was going to be a liability on the battlefield.

Need. How did one go about explaining the feeling? Need for water. Need for another person. Was this intensity normal?

"From now on," he decided, "We'll look out for each other."

She gave him her best stern look, "I'm supposed to protect _you_."

"And you do," He stroked her hair, and she smiled like a cat in a patch of sunlight, "You protect me from all things. Even apathy."

She leaned toward him with a murmur, "All things."

She flowed into him, and their mouths touched, so naturally that he didn't realize what was happening until she was kissing him. And more alarming, _he_ was kissing _her_. She tasted soft and boozy, and he was insatiable. She grabbed his collar and pulled him even closer. He obliged eagerly. Control slipped away into some dark corner of her bedroom and peered out from the shadows. There was a ribbon dipped in liquor threading through his mouth. It was too good to be true for a senseless moment.

But he couldn't. Damn it all, he couldn't take advantage of her intoxication. He wrenched away from her with a groan of frustration, and stood up before he changed his mind. He felt like a very stupid man already. Consciences were such burdensome things.

She looked . . . satisfied? She settled into her pillow and gave him a small, drowsy grin, "Goodnight then."

That was the end of it. She closed her eyes, smile still fixed to her delicious mouth. Relief, admiration and longing dueled for dominance in his mind.

"Goodnight," he whispered.

He found the bathroom and splashed water over his forehead, but his hands still shook as they gripped the sink edge. He wished he could cool off as easily as her. He wished he too had drunk enough to slip gratefully into dreamless sleep. At least then he would stop remembering that kiss.

Only curiosity dimmed his fervor.

The bottles resting on the sink jarred him with a sense of foreboding. He picked one up and studied the side. The drug name on the label meant nothing to him, but the small hand-written note scratched across it meant everything. He sank to the floor with the bottle still in his hands and vowed then and there that she would tell him everything.

In the morning, he was going to make her talk.


	8. Naming Nameless Men

A/N – I'm so sorry this update was slow in coming. When the semester ends, I'll have more time to write. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed thus far, and also, especial thanks to the anonymous reviewers. I can't send you guys nifty replies, but I am thinking of you.

* * *

**Chapter Seven – Naming Nameless Men**

"_That's a pretty tattoo you've got there, Sweetheart." _

_Hakuro traced the exquisite array on her back with sand-crusted fingernails. Her own were just as ruined—she could see them resting on the sheet in front of her face—but the General's fingers mattered more. The entire cot rocked as he moved to study her back more thoroughly. She remained flat on her stomach, listlessly watching her fingers._

"_Thank you." She pressed her head into the nook of her shoulder and wished he'd stop touching the sigil. That was Roy's._

"_Where did you say you got it again?" he asked._

_It was too hot. Even naked as she was, she felt like an animal roasting on a spit. The sheets, the man beside her, Ishbal itself, it was all too damn hot for any sort of war. Too sandy too. She started to compile a mental list of grievances in her head to distract herself from the General's ministrations._

"_I got it . . . a long time ago," she muttered distantly. "Mostly just to make my father angry. It's nothing special really."_

"_It's beautiful," he sighed like a man at prayer. "Come to think of it, it looks like an alchemic array . . . What do these words here say?"_

"_It might be. I have no idea," she lied. "Must not be a very good one if it is, but enough with tattoos. They are so boring."_

_She rolled onto her back under the pretense of stretching, and he watched her move appreciatively. Her distraction worked flawlessly._

"_Such white skin." He smudged a finger across her stomach. "You my dear, you are incomparable."_

_She stared up at the canopy of the tent. "If you say so."_

* * *

When Riza woke the world was cracking in two. 

There was a deep, persistent ache that seemed to start in the very center of her head and work its way outward, popping in florescent flashes of lemonade yellow behind her eyes. Her stomach pitched and rolled in a most obnoxious manner, and she felt dulled to everything but pain. Pain sliced into her like a knife newly sharpened. She knew her head would only get worse if she moved, but the nausea had to be dealt with.

She squinted. Her bedroom was a blur of fuzzy shapes that became clearer as she blinked. Thankfully, the blinds were drawn, blocking out any stabbing rays of sunlight. Silence buzzed in her ears and ticked like a faulty metronome. Her stomach turned over and lurched unpleasantly into her throat.

She threw on a robe and stumbled into her bathroom.

When she emerged, her stomach was a bit more complacent, but her head was still setting up a tantrum. She winced, tapped a finger against her temple with a low moan of pain, and wished she was still asleep.

"You look a little green around the gills."

She yelped like she'd been scalded and whirled at the unexpected voice. The Colonel was standing at the end of the hall with a paper under one arm and a glass of water in his hand.

Her mind did a summersault around that. What was he doing here? In her apartment. In the morning. With her Central Times. She remembered him stopping by last night but . . . but . . . had they _done_ something? No, she remembered waking up with her clothes from yesterday still on. Even so, the look he was giving her was quite peculiar. She patted her hair self-consciously.

He stuck out the glass. "Drink this."

She took it and drank. The water slid cool fingers down her throat with every swallow. Roy watched her with an imperturbably dark gaze. There were so many things she wanted to ask him. Did she even dare? She took the glass from her lips and opened her mouth.

"What . . ." Her head hurt. "What time is it?"

"About eleven o'clock," he replied calmly.

"What?!" She pushed the glass back into his hands and made for her bedroom. "We've got to be at work! I've got to get dressed! What are we doing standing around here?!"

"Don't worry about that," he said. "It's taken care of. You wouldn't be very productive today anyway."

"Huh?" She turned around and braced herself against the wall with a hand. "How is that going to look? You and I . . . you know what the others think as well as I do."

"I went to the office this morning, did some paperwork, and made a big show of not knowing where you were. I told them I'd look around for you, and lo and behold, I've found you." He smiled and held out the glass again. "You just drink all of this. I'll call the office and tell them you are so incredibly ill that I simply must look after you for the rest of the day."

"Oh really." She accepted the glass again and took a languid sip. "And do you? Plan on staying the rest of the day, that is."

"I'd like to stay for a little while, if that's alright with you," he murmured. "You know, because you are not feeling well and all. I'll make you some breakfast. Think you can manage breakfast?"

She was doubtful of her stomach's ability to endure anything edible, but he looked so hopeful that she couldn't possibly refuse the offer. "Perhaps. Just let me get dressed and cleaned up first."

* * *

When she entered the kitchen a half hour later, her hair was damp and clean, and her clothes were fresh, but she still felt grumpy and disoriented. Her headache had not abated. Like a demanding child, it refused to be anything but the center of her attention. The Colonel had a plate of toast and another glass of water prepared for her. She sat down and dragged the plate closer with a small grin of gratitude. He pulled out a chair across from her and opened the paper. 

She propped a piece of toast against her lip and flicked a surreptitious glance at the cardboard box that was still sitting on end of the table. Had he looked inside it? The liquor was put away and the shot glass was nowhere in sight. He must have looked inside the box. Her gaze turned to the black crown of his hair, peeping out from over the top of the Central Times. The headline was about a woman on the southside of Central who had given birth to triplets. The world was mundane today. She chewed thoughtfully. He turned the pages disinterestedly.

He waited in perfect silence until she'd swallowed the last bite of her toast. Then he turned the full searchlight beam of his attention on her. His expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts, but she still felt a sudden surge of discomfort at the scrutiny.

He laid down the paper. "Are you well enough to answer a question?"

She looked at him warily. "I think so."

"Good." He leaned toward her with his chin resting on his knuckles. "Do you have any idea how dangerous aborting a child can be?"

She choked on a gulp of water.

Roy's face was still blank as a slate. "I take it you do know what I'm talking about then."

"How did you . . . Where did you . . ." Her headache buzzed angrily in the back of her mind. "What gave you the right to start snooping through my things?"

She glared at him, but he didn't flinch. The Colonel was not easily cowed into submission, even when she showed her teeth. Normally, she admired this, but at the moment she was irritated. She could raise her hackles and snarl all she wanted, but he would not respond favorably to her posturing.

"The pills were sitting on the sink in full view. I'd hardly call that snooping." His eyes blazed, and his cool demeanor started to slip around the edges. "Now, you still haven't answered my question. What the hell were you thinking!?"

"Roy . . . Colonel, Sir, I haven't—"

"Bullshit! You bought those pills for a reason, Hawkeye!" he growled. "Now I don't care if you want the baby or not. I really don't, but if you intend to hurt yourself, I care very much."

She stared down at the crumbs on her plate. "I knew there were some risks."

"I've seen a woman die trying to terminate an unwanted pregnancy." His voice raised and tensed, like an angry river building speed and purpose before a fall. "It wasn't pretty. I'm not about to let that happen to you. I don't care who the hell fathered that child or what family members are going to shun you." He drew his tongue over his teeth and sucked in a dry breath of air before his discourse tumbled over the edge of his authority. "You are not taking those pills."

Silence followed the crash. Her jaw slackened and fell slightly ajar. He folded his hands over each other and met her incredulous stare unwaveringly. There was something very piecing about Roy Mustang's eyes when he issued commands. His slanted brows and thick lashes gave him a very proportionate and calculating gaze, and his dark irises added a compelling lilt of self-depreciation and certainty. He always seemed to know just where to put the chess pieces, and his tone was that of a man unused to being questioned.

She was going to call him on that last move. She was becoming more ambivalent about the pills with each passing day, but that did not give him to right to sanction what she could and could not do with her own body.

She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head in a dangerous imitation of curiosity. "Was that an order, Sir?"

"The next time I try to commit suicide, you have every right to order me to stop." He didn't move, but his eyes softened. "I'm telling you this because I will not survive your death. I know both of our lives are far from certain given our line of work, but my policy has always been the same. I simply cannot let you risk yourself unnecessarily. That's all there is to it."

She clamped down on the side of her mouth to keep from revealing any expression his words might have provoked. "I don't think I was going to do it anyway. I mean, I thought about it at first, but now I've had too long to think."

Roy nodded and listened to her, but instead of looking satisfied he leaned further forward. Something told her she was not going to be leaving her chair any time soon, and she wasn't going to like what was coming next. She wasn't out of the woods, and she needed more painkillers.

"Thank you, Hawkeye." He pinned her down with his gaze, and a corner of his mouth turned down as if what he was about to say tasted sour on his tongue. "But this brings me to the next topic in our little carousel of happiness. Now that we both know you were considering abortion, I'd like to know why." He took another steadying breath. "What were the circumstances of this child's conception? And try not to lie to me."

She balked. "Sir, please don't do this. I don't want to discuss that right now."

"But I do. I've had enough of you avoiding the truth." He drummed his fingers on the table and stared into her the way someone would look into a reflecting pool before tossing a penny. "Were you forced?"

"That's not—"

He cut her off before she could launch into her protest. "It's a simple yes or no question, Hawkeye."

She shook her head and frowned. "No it isn't, Sir."

Roy glared at her. Why did she always have to be so obstinate? He knew he was striking a nerve though. He'd noticed that the more disconcerted or defensive she was becoming, the more frequently she dropped 'Sirs' into her speech. She seemed to think it was a distancing mechanism, but it only made him want to pull her closer. He wanted the truth, and he wasn't going to let her play slippery this time.

"Pray do enlighten me then," he told her. "Tell me _exactly_ what happened."

"Why should I?"

"Because I care about you and because I'm your friend." He searched for a more substantial word than 'friend' but he couldn't think of anything that wouldn't cross a line, a line they'd blotted out last night . . . but that was beside the point. It was reinstated now, and she had given him no indication that she even remembered what had happened last night.

"If I tell you . . ." She turned and swallowed a lump in her throat. "If I tell you, you must promise me you won't seek retribution, Colonel. I need that promise."

He looked at her, his lieutenant, watching him with her flashing, bourbon-tinged eyes. Her request seemed so simple, and yet, he wasn't about to lie to her or gloss over his anger. Whenever he imagined someone hurting her, he knew he could make no such promise.

"I can't."

She crossed her arms and tilted her chin up. "Then I can't tell you."

"Fine, fine, fine," he hissed. "Just wait a minute. I . . . I . . ." He needed some kind of ambiguous commitment that would appease her. "I promise I won't do anything rash."

She remained in her previous position. "I don't believe you."

"Well I don't believe _you_ when you say you weren't forced, so I suppose we are in the same boat," he pointed out.

"Colonel, listen to me, please. There is no easy way to tell you this, but I've been in sexual situations where I wasn't entirely willing my entire life." She stared down at something fascinating on the floor near one of the table legs as she said this. "Don't pity me because of that. That's just the way it is."

She wasn't lying. She wouldn't have been so avoidant of the issue if she was trying to lie to him, but he still found it hard to swallow her confession dry. He gulped several times, and his stomach heaved dangerously. Riza Hawkeye being forced to do anything was surreal and chilling, like stepping into someone else's dream. His indomitable, steel-jawed, straight shooting Lieutenant. How was such a thing even possible? But then again, he knew very little about the enigmatic subject of Hawkeye's sex life. His was no secret, but hers was not out there for public dissection, and the eyes he could just make out from under tilted lashes were full of pain.

"I didn't know," he whispered.

She laughed ruefully. "Of course you didn't. You were the last person I wanted to know."

"Lieutenant, look at me."

She did so, reluctantly.

He sighed. "I wish you would trust me more than that."

She could have killed him for his perfect sincerity. "Fine. Fine. I'll tell you. But this is a long story."

He spread his hands and smiled humorlessly. "I've got time."

Very true. They were both off for the day, and she had no where else to go. He had her right where he wanted her. Now, she only had one problem; where to begin. She worried her bottom lip thoughtfully. After going through several starts and stops that crackled like static in her head, she decided on something simple.

"This . . . situation of mine started in Ishbal."

Roy was floored. "Ishbal!? That was nearly—"

"Four years ago," she finished for him. "Please don't interrupt me. In Ishbal I started sleeping with one of my commanding officers." She paused. "Don't look at me like that, Sir. You know as well as I do how virginal your own experience has been."

"I'm just shocked . . ." Roy tilted his head in disbelief. "During a war?"

Truth be told, he was more than shocked. He was upset. He had been with her in Ishbal. They weren't exactly a couple, then or now, but he had always secretly and guiltily thought of her as belonging to him. He hadn't even noticed her taking up with another man. Evidently, she didn't belong to him as much as he thought.

She must have seen where his thoughts were going. "I made sure you didn't know. Nobody knew. It's not exactly something I would have flaunted, and people were willing to turn a blind eye on his behavior as long as he comported himself with discretion. He was very persuasive, and I was very young. He used me for his own ends, but I never resisted him, so he isn't entirely to blame."

Roy's eyes darkened. "How old were you?"

She bit her lip and slid a finger across the dip in her throat. "When it started, I was eighteen."

Her words tore a jagged slit in the fabric of liner thought. He saw a flash of color, a perfect shade of rage that sizzled in the marrow of his bones. Again, she tapped into the vein of his thoughts, and her eyes darted over his face like panicked birds with wispy black wings, looking for a safe vantage point to observe him from.

"That's practically statutory rape! How _dare_ he!?" he ground out between his teeth. "You didn't have to give in to that sort of coercion! Why didn't you file for sexual harassment?!" And finally the root of his discontent. "Why didn't you tell _me_!? I would have taken care of that man. I could have made it look like an accident too."

"And get yourself executed for treason," she retorted. "Yes. I can't see why I didn't tell you."

He frowned a deep trench into is brow. "Well, you could have told _someone_ at least. Did he hurt you? Did officer bastard hurt you?"

"Not very much." Her expression retreated again, down and away. "It doesn't matter anymore. I've moved past that."

He stared at her. "Have you?"

There was no adequate answer that wasn't either painful or untrue. Her past was a deep gash that still oozed blood if she poked at it. She had never attempted to heal it because feeling sorry for oneself is more enjoyable than anyone wants to admit, and blood didn't turn her stomach. But now, more and more, she thought she ought to see someone about suturing the wound. Mothers with psychological issues tended to hurt their children.

"Anyway," she hastily continued with the story. "The affair ended with the war. You saved me."

"Me?" He looked completely dumbfounded. "I didn't even know about it. How could I have saved you?"

She stretched out her fingers and peered at them intently. "You took me under your command. You kept me close. Someone would have to be incredibly stupid to try to touch me when I became your right hand woman."

He nodded. "I'd have incinerated them."

"I believe you, which is why this next part is going to be difficult for you to hear." She stood up and busied herself with the toast plate, running it under the tap and scrubbing it compulsively. "The man who took up with me during Ishbal was General Hakuro."

She heard a chair scrap backwards and the sounds of Roy getting up. "I'll kill him."

She didn't turn around. "Sit down, Colonel Mustang! Don't think I'm above shooting you in the foot, to keep you from getting yourself in worse trouble!"

She waited, eyes burning into the plate in her hand for some sort of sound from him. He wasn't moving. As far as she could tell he wasn't reacting. She couldn't see his face, but she knew he was watching her. She felt his eyes burning into her spine, and knew she would have to turn around eventually. She was going to have to face the consequences of her unmasked deceit head on.

"He left me alone after Ishbal." She made a straight line out of her shoulders and turned around. "I thought that was the end of him, but about two months ago you went on a campaign in the east, and something happened."

He took a step toward her. "What sort of something?"

"He came to me about the sigil." She gulped. Only four people had ever seen that sigil in its entirety, and letting Hakuro examine her naked back seemed more like betraying Roy than anything else she had let him do. Even his taking her to bed. "He knew it was yours. He . . . he . . . he wasn't happy when he saw what we had done to make it unreadable."

Another few steps. He could have reached out and touched her now. "What the hell did he do to you?"

She gripped the counter and smothered her expression blank. It was now or never.

"Well, I know for a fact that he is the father of this child."

He didn't say anything for a long time. He just stared at her, swallowing and swallowing the prickly truth that cut up his insides. He had feared as much as soon as she mentioned the General's name, and now, even with the padding of his suspicions, the words were indigestible. He didn't want to believe it could be true. It couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't be true.

He ran a hand over the top of a chair. "Did you or didn't you give yourself willingly to that man?"

Something pinpricked the back of her eyes, and she angrily brushed at them. Now was not a time to start crying. She looked at him looking at her looking at him, and time was reduced to an endless train of looking and being looked upon. Perpetually skipping stones across a lake. Love felt like being pocketed with bullets, but she couldn't turn away.

"How could I not?" Her voice rose from her lips with the lightness of water vapor, disconnected and soulless, as if an invisible woman behind her had spoken. "He was going to hurt you . . ." Breath inside a wineglass. ". . . I let him hurt me instead."

"Dammit Hawkeye!" He slammed a shaking fist in the table. "Goddammit!"

She leaned closer to place a hand on his shoulder, thinking that was all he would let her do for the moment. He took her completely by surprise when he grabbed her in one lightning strike motion and pulled her flush against him. No hesitation. He pulled. She yielded. They were both dimly aware that the embrace was much more like that of two lovers than two friends, but desperation took precedence over decency. She sighed softly and smiled through the haze in her eyes when he buried his nose in her hair. He really did like her hair.

After a time, she heard his voice, soft and warm against her shoulder. "Riza."

"I'm here."

"Why would you do something like that?" He clutched her tighter, folded her into himself as if they could become one being by the sheer force of his will. "I can't even . . . ."

She squeezed her eyes shut and felt something wet trickle down to the end of her nose. "Because you're my Colonel," she whispered. "Because you're mine."

* * *

_"Good afternoon, Sir." She maneuvered her way to the General's desk with a box full of files and set them down with a sigh. "These are the incident reports Colonel Mustang said you wanted to see."_

_Hakuro didn't give her any sort of verbal reply. His eyes roved over her lazily, from head to toe, as if trying to remember a snatch of something sordid. It was always this way whenever she was forced to interact with him. He was never going to let her forgot how intimately he knew her, or how much he despised her Colonel, and she didn't know which of the two irritated her more. She wiped her bangs off her forehead and turned to leave, but his voice stopped her._

_"You and Colonel Mustang are very close, aren't you, Lieutenant?" _

_She froze. Her posture didn't falter, but the nerves at the base of her neck quivered in alarm. What was he trying to imply, and what did he mean by implying something? He couldn't unseat Mustang with accusations of fraternization alone, especially if the accusations were technically baseless. Could he?_

_Her guilty conscience failed to process anything else. She barely noticed the sound of his approaching footsteps, and she thought nothing of them until he placed a hand against her back. She jumped at the suddenness, as if he'd jammed a livewire into her spine, but the haze of pure shock rendered her unable to move away._

"_The Colonel's power. It's been puzzling me for awhile now, but I think I always knew the truth." He sliced a finger down the center of her back and back up again. "His array is the one right here on your back, isn't it? How fitting that all of his secrets should be kept on a woman's body. It suits him rather well I'd say."_

_"General Hakuro." She cleared her throat and attempted to step away. "Colonel Mustang and I . . ."_

_"I really don't care for any explanations, Sweetheart." He caught her by the elbow and held her in place. "He's got a territory complex about you. That explains enough for me. I just want that sigil."_

_"Don't touch me." She tried to jerk away, but his hold tightened._

_"Why not? Because he'll burn me to a crisp if I lay a finger on you?" He chuckled snidely and pulled her close enough to murmur against her ear. "Must be nice to be his little pet. But have you ever asked yourself what his real motives are? Does he really give a damn about you, or is he just guarding his merchandise?"_

_"I said don't touch me."_

"_He is in the east now, is he not?" He grabbed the hand that was reaching for her holster and pinned it behind her back. "It would be so easy to get ride of him. You know I have connections, and every reason to want him out of the picture. Then he would stop threatening what is mine."_

_Her eyes narrowed. "If you hurt him, I'll kill you."_

_"You will do nothing of the sort," he said. "The only way to help him now is to shut your mouth and let me see that beautiful sigil. That's all I want. I might be much fonder of him if you obey my request."_

_"I . . ." She swallowed on the word and fought back the trembling in her fingers, like a thief caught in a game of cops and robbers. Fear was irrational. So embarrassingly irrational. She'd tried to master it for so long, but now she was losing the battle._

_Her mind checked out. A soft purplish detachment rose up and consumed her, a detachment she knew all too well from Ishbal. He made it hard to differentiate between what she had been and what she was. He began to tear at the buttons of her jacket. She made a feeble attempt to shrug away, but he stilled her easily. For the most part she was paralyzed by memories. Shock. Fear. Disgust at her own acquiescence. Any of the above._

_"Think of this as a sacrifice for your dear Colonel." He divested her of the jacket in one jerk. "God, you'd do _anything_ for him wouldn't you? But what, my dear, what would he do for you?"_

_He lifted his hands from her body, and she came to herself again, but it was only for an instant. Long enough for a horrible premonition of what was to come to dawn on her. She hovered, weightless, rapture of pain for a bleeding moment, before he brought her down. Her hands went to her throat, expecting to feel the sticky, rust-red sheen, and his hands went to greedily the sigil. _

_Whisper of fabric. Cool air blowing kisses. Horrified gasp from the man behind her, and then his fingers digging anger into her shoulders._

_"What have you done to it!? What the hell have you done to it!?"_


	9. Force and Will

A/N – Wow. As shocking as it may be, I've returned to fanfictiondotnet. I'm very sorry it's been over a month since my last update. I had some issues to sort out, but I think they are on the mend now. Thank you for not giving up on this story! (I can only assume that you haven't given up if you are reading this.) I can't thank all of you enough for the continued support.

* * *

**Chapter Eight – Force and Will**

_She made a terrible, primal sound, like the despairing cry of an animal when the steel-jawed trap springs shut, shattering the fragile bones of a joint. There was light. There was a taste like lead, and a smell like screaming. She hung on the cusp of breathing. Consciousness slipped further and further back, leaving her body to quiver, leaf-like in his hands._

_He was never this rough before. He didn't used to treat her this way, with a strangled sense of loss and betrayal on his breath, soaking through her skin and flooding her bones. The past was soft and deep, and it was entirely pointless to ignore. Who was he to take? Who was she to leave? Who was this Roy Mustang that she should belong so completely to his cause? Belonging to belonging to belonging. A woman's body. A sigil of fire. Her very soul. Who belonged to whom?_

_She may have fought against him. She wasn't certain. There was only so much that she allowed herself to remember. She knew she said, "Stop." Yelped it. Mumbled it. Whispered it in the corners of her mouth. He slammed her back into his desk, and she told him over and over again. She may have been delirious on the word, spitting Stops like seed husks from her mouth and thrashing in her supplication, wishing—oh wishing—he would just listen. _

_Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! _

_What a ridiculous word. The more she said it, the funnier it sounded. The funnier it sounded, the more it seemed like a mindless utterance. A chant. A prayer. An absolution. Roy Mustang was absolution. _

_Blood under her nails. Blood in her mouth. Violence begetting life. _

* * *

The cardboard box was full of photographs. 

That evening she opened it on her table and began to sort them out, hands searching, sifting, selecting, sleek paper edges cutting into her fingertips. Why was she searching for her own reflection in the faded catalogues of barely remembered past? It wasn't as if she could recognize herself in a young girl anyway. What would she have in common with who she had been? She'd made a clean amputation of all things in her past, hadn't she?

She didn't even like to have her picture taken, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from her own face, in childhood, in adolescence, in the years after that. Always the same features, peered back at her. The impossibly soft eyes watered down to a shade of muddled grey. The thin mouth, tightening over her teeth, swallowing wisdom that young girls weren't supposed to possess. The dogs at her feet. The guns at her side. The rebellious flurry of blond bangs, scattering over her forehead.

She looked away from her childhood, touched a fingertip to the dip beside her mouth, and imagined the thinness forming lines of worry. How much she hated her own mouth. It was always pursed, always turned down, always chapped. Not a very kissable mouth.

_Speaking of kisses . . . _

She perused the photographs again, this time for him.

And there he was, waiting patiently for her to fall into him. She always did, and she would never know why. He was the fixture that never went away, and she fell into an orbit around him, as if she was meant to do nothing else. The boy with the dark eyes, standing beside her father and grinning up from her palm. Roy. He looked out of so many of her photographs. He looked out as if he knew she was looking at him, which was beyond impossible, yet not unbelievable. Such a thing was not a contradiction where he was concerned.

Perhaps, she had not been orbiting him alone. Perhaps, they had always been revolving around each other, gravitating naturally like the poles of a magnet, and she had not seen the duality of this attraction when she was young.

Roy, with his artistic fingers. Roy, with his slick, ink-feather hair. Roy, with his halved apple grin. Roy whom she loved above all others.

If only she had a photograph of his voice, the way it tickled against her ear when he told her she was pretty in Isis. She wanted to pin down and preserve that kind of prettiness. She wanted to press it close, and remember the adoration in his voice long after memory had failed her. She wanted to be whatever Roy thought was beautiful.

She would lay her life at his feet. She didn't know the exact moment when she realized this terrifying truth, but it was undeniable now. She would sacrifice more than just bullets for Roy, and General Hakuro's words still clawed at the tender places of her mind.

_"God, you'd do anything for him, wouldn't you?"_

Anything. Anything. Anything. A life wasn't worth living if there wasn't something important enough to sacrifice it for. Martyrdom in the name of Love. Or was it Love in the name of Martyrdom? How theatrically, romantically, impractically Shakespearian. And yet, there was still a small, nameless fear.

_"But what, my dear, what would he do for you?"_

* * *

Roy Mustang came to work the next day with a mission. 

His mission was simple. There were only two main objectives. Kill Hakuro, and don't let Hawkeye find out. There were no 'ifs,' 'ands,' or 'buts.' There was only her. The sight of her, the feel of her, and the flavor of her burned into his lips. He was still dwelling on the aftertaste of that kiss, perhaps to an almost unhealthy extent. He didn't care. He was in love with her. There was absolutely no denying that now, to himself or to her. He wanted her, and he wanted the man who had hurt her to experience a great deal of pain. Certain, things seemed to go hand in hand.

His subordinates looked up when he entered the office, but their smiles of greeting turned into looks of trepidation when they saw the murderous glower he was sporting. Only Havoc didn't seem to notice or care. It was often hard to tell which with the man. Whatever it was, this apparent apathy or obliviousness often led to acts of unintentional bravery in Havoc. As if his brain only stopped to ponder the dangers and repercussions of his actions after a considerable delay.

Today was a prime example of this phenomenon. Jean Havoc, unlike his fellows, did not seem to fully comprehend the plethora perils associated with addressing Roy Mustang when he was scowling.

"Hey chief." He poked an unlit cigarette into the pocket of his mouth and grinned broadly around the stick. "Did you enjoy your day off?"

Roy sloughed off his coat and glared around the room. "Where is she?"

"Lieutenant Hawkeye?" Havoc looked around as if he expected to find her hidden just behind his shoulder, and appeared puzzled when she was nowhere to be found. "Huh . . . She was here . . . That woman can sneak out pretty quietly when she wants to. Are you having a fight with her or something?"

"Not really, no." He glanced around the room one last time and decided that he would be a fool to waste this perfect opportunity to escape her tight surveillance. "I'm going out for a bit. If she returns, tell her I'll be back in about an hour."

"Yes Sir," Havoc nodded, and his expression gained the first hints of a fearful cast. "But . . . where should I tell her you went?"

"Just visiting an old friend." Roy smirked and regarded his junior officer with an almost malicious amusement. "And don't worry, it is work related. If Lieutenant Hawkeye has a problem with that, she can take it up with me. Jeeze Havoc, you're acting like she might shoot you for letting me escape."

Havoc's shoulders slumped, and they all heard him mutter something that sounded like, "You never know."

This final remark caused Mustang to chuckle, but there was darker emotion lurking behind his casual front of laughter, and it did not go unnoticed. But before Havoc could examine this new mood or begin to speculate on its origins, the Colonel had already shuttered his expression back behind another ruthless smirk. Havoc glanced around at the others, but they all appeared equally perplexed by Mustang's behavior.

All four of them stared after him as he stalked out. Something was upsetting the Colonel, but it was impossible to determine anything more than that. That smirk was a dangerous political and personal weapon. Mustang could deftly conceal any lie beneath his upturned lips, and there was no reading his true intentions past the smile.

After a few beats of insufferable silence, Breda finally spoke. "So where do you think he's really going?"

Fury shrugged. "You heard him. Visiting an old friend."

* * *

_An old friend indeed. _

Roy had known General Hakuro—or at least known of him—for so long, but the man had never been a friend, even when he hadn't known about his affair with Lieutenant Hawkeye. Their mutual dislike of each other was tolerable before she became an issue, but now . . . what he'd done to her was more than a personal affront. She was everything that mattered, and this had been happening since the massacre in the east.

Pretty, pretty Riza Hawkeye, who all the soldier boys dreamed about back in Ishbal. He knew his buddies all liked to look at her, but at the time he didn't know how he was supposed to feel about that. In the barracks, they spoke of her in hushed whispers, around pilfered cigarettes, between licks of lantern flame, over playing cards and wads of cash. She had an ethereal presence in every conversation. Her hair, her face, her body, reduced to specific segments discussed separately from the whole woman that she was. And to think, he had thought lecherous boys and militant rebels were the most dangerous predators she'd have to face on the battlefield.

If she wasn't going to teach Hakuro a lesson for touching her, he was going to have to do it for her. Maybe it wasn't for him to exact vengeance on her behalf, but he'd deal with the consequences when he had a mind to think about such things. He _couldn't_ just do nothing.

He climbed the stairs to the floor where the Generals' offices were located and trumped down the hall to Hakuro's room. This was going to be an ugly encounter. He wasn't sure what he planned to do, but the murder flashing beneath his eyelids did not bode well for the other man. He reached into his pocket and closed a fist around his gloves.

He knocked once before swinging the door open, ready for anything. Anything but . . .

He stopped in the doorway and glanced back the brass nameplate on the carved mahogany, just to make sure he did indeed have the correct room. "General Raven?"

The handsome faced General looked up and smiled politely. "Yes, Colonel Mustang, can I help you with something?"

Roy looked around the room without bothering to mask his confusion. Hakuro was nowhere to be seen, but his office seemed to be under a small-scale invasion. General Raven was seated at Hakuro's desk, looking at him worriedly, as if he had just brought a particularly contagious disease into the room. Roy couldn't blame him. He probably did look slightly feverish. General Grumman was also there. He smiled and waved from over the top of a file cabinet he was sorting through. Roy waved back uneasily.

"I . . . uh . . ." He shoved his gloves back into his pockets and cast around for a question that wouldn't seem idiotic. "Where is General Hakuro?"

"He is on a short leave at present," Raven replied. "Did you have urgent business with him?"

"Well, there's . . ." Roy glanced at the still-beaming Grumman and sighed wearily. He couldn't be the one to tell him what had happened to his granddaughter. "No. It can wait, I suppose."

"In any case, he should be back soon." Grumman closed the cabinet and made his way over to him. "He's got to be back in time for the ball honoring Bennett's promotion. You will be attending the event as well, wont you?"

"Yes," Roy answered politely and curled his mounting frustration into fists in his pockets. "I guess I am."

"With that pretty lieutenant of yours on your arm, no doubt." Grumman winked and continued on conversationally. "The two of you make a rather striking pair."

Roy chose to dignify that with a stiff shrug. "Hawkeye doesn't do balls, General."

Grumman gave a shrug of his own. "Maybe she just needs the proper persuasion, Mustang. Ever thought of that?"

Roy looked nervously at General Raven who was watching the exchange with an expression of mild curiosity. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sir."

"Of course you don't." Roy thought he saw the General's smile slip for a moment, but he might have been imagining things. "I was just pulling your leg."

Roy could see that he was not going to garner more information about Hakuro's whereabouts without sounding nosy or impertinent, and this digression with General Grumman was only going to raise even more suspicions about the nature of his relationship with his Lieutenant. Getting Hawkeye caught up in any more rumors was the last thing he wanted to do if he wanted her to survive the scandal that was on the brink of ensuing. If he was incapable of anything else, at least he could afford her that small protection.

He bowed and saluted to the two Generals. "I won't disturb the both of you any longer. Good day, Sirs."

Then he backed out of the room and started to advance down the hallway, but no sooner had he passed the next office door, then he heard the sounds of someone chasing after him and a whispered, "Colonel Mustang! Wait!"

He stopped and allowed General Grumman to catch up to him. "What is it, General?"

"My granddaughter, Colonel Mustang," he murmured. "I've heard some very disturbing reports from Jacob Hawkeye, and I know you know the truth."

Roy stopped and stared at Grumman like he'd just been smacked across the face. His thoughts scattered in a moment of blind panic, but eventually his mouth formed a coherent question. "How much have you heard?"

"So it is true." Grumman scrubbed a hand across his mouth. "I was half-hoping you would tell me it was all lies. Impossible and far-fetched lies. It . . ." He stopped and looked around. "Come into my office for a moment. I don't want to discuss this in the hallway."

Roy complied, and Grumman led him to his room. In a few quick strides they arrived at an open corner office. It was furnished with the same military-issued furniture as the other Generals' offices, but Grumman had adorned almost every empty surface with little knickknacks: a blue plastic parakeet, a large polished cowry, a stack of books about human genetics, a porcelain angel, several stacks of playing cards, and innumerable picture frames. His furniture looked like it hadn't been dusted clean in years. There was something interesting in every direction, but despite all of these things, Roy's eyes were immediately drawn to the center of the room. There stood a large, mustached man who seemed to fill the entire space.

"Good to see you Colonel," he rumbled.

Roy smiled tightly. "Likewise Major."

"Major Armstrong," Grumman addressed him with a nod. "Would you please excuse us for a moment?"

"Certainly." Armstrong saluted and departed without another word.

Roy stood uncertainly for a moment. The General wasn't speaking, and he wasn't sure he if he was just formulating a thought or waiting for him to say something. He didn't know what the General did or did not know. He didn't know what he should say or reveal. Finally, he decided silence was probably a safer policy in this situation.

He looked around the room again, and one of the framed pictures on Grumman's desk caught his attention. He should have known the very woman they were about to discuss would feature prominently in her grandfather's photographs. This one was very old. Riza was younger than when he first met her. She was standing beside her father and her mother who was holding a baby, presumably her brother Robin. She was smiling shyly, as if she realized how enchanting she looked. As if she'd never held a gun in her soft little hands. Roy felt something stick in his throat.

"You like that picture?" Grumman's voice yanked him back from his thoughts.

He nodded without taking his eyes from the photograph or the girl in it. "Why did they cut her hair?"

The Riza in the photograph had long, brilliant tresses that burned in shades of white over her head, neck and shoulders. Against the grays and blacks around her it seemed to adorn her head like a halo, so bright he almost touched the photograph. There was something very delicate and open about her face when her hair wasn't cropped short or pinned back. In those rare instances, he could see the woman beneath the warrior and fascination took his breath away.

"I'm not exactly sure." The General placed himself behind his desk and regarded him carefully. "The way I hear it, she cut it herself one day. You could ask her about it I suppose."

"I suppose." Roy reluctantly dragged his eyes from the picture "But that's not what you brought me in here to talk about, is it?"

"No." Grumman frowned and clasped his hands together in front of him. "I want to know about this pregnancy and this child. Are you the father?"

"No! I've never touched her," he replied, unable to keep the dart of irritation out of his voice. "I . . ." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I've been so careful with her. _So very careful._ Why am I _still_ the first person people suspect?"

"You know the answer to that one, Colonel. People always suspect the male and female officers who seem unnaturally close, especially if the pair is as attractive as you and Riza. The two of you seem joined at the hip, but I've seen the way you act around each other out of uniform." Grumman sank into his chair with a smirk. "You have way too much electricity for a consummated relationship, and you both seem dead set on ignoring it. Remarkably well in fact. I doubt anyone outside your close subordinates would have any reasonable cause to think something was amiss. Your professionalism is admirable."

"I just don't want her taken from me," Roy admitted, wondering why he was telling Grumman this much. "I don't want her used against me. I would never purposefully endanger her."

"Which is why I believe you when you say you haven't touched her. I never thought it was you." Grumman nodded and made a gesture that indicated he should pull up a chair. "But you can see my confusion then. Riza wouldn't do this on a whim, and she's devoted herself to you. What is going on?"

Roy chose to remaining standing. "I'm not sure I'm the person you should be asking about this. It's Hawkeye's life."

"Yes, it is her life, but you know as well as I do that she doesn't tell anyone anything. She would never tell me about this, even if I only want to help her. She never speaks her secrets to anyone. Except you." He stared at him directly. "I think you know who the father is, Colonel."

Roy tucked a breath deep into his chest and folded himself around it. "I do."

He didn't elaborate.

Grumman didn't move. "So it's like that then."

Roy didn't respond. The General could draw whatever conclusions he wanted as long as he didn't get in the way of his plans. Anyone who tried to stop him would be very sorry they tried. The part of him that would not tolerate Hakuro's actions was strong and savage, just waiting for the slightest provocation.

Grumman scooped up the old picture of his daughter's family and studied it as he spoke. "I don't suppose this has anything to do with your impromptu trip to Hakuro's office."

He bolted his fists closed, tight enough to send shocks of pain through his palms. "I'm taking care of this myself, Sir."

Grumman's gaze was frighteningly perceptive. He measured out his next words carefully. "I don't think she'd want you to take vengeance into your own hands."

Roy drew in a thin breath and exhaled shakily. His chest felt clenched and twisted, like a scrunched rag. How could he ever explain? How could he ever put voice to the anger and the regret that had welled up in a painful bundle beneath his ribs? Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined things he never wanted to believe, and if seizing Hakuro's neck in his hands was what it took to rid himself of the visions, he had to. Guilt. How could he be so blind and so powerless?

He was aware of Grumman watching him when he began to pace the length of the room. The walls seemed to enclose him, and he was about as useless as a caged animal. Hakuro was somewhere unreachable, and he couldn't even protect the most important person in his life. How could he possibly protect an entire country? How indeed? The entire world conspired to rip her away from him, and he would unravel without her.

He did one more full circuit around the office and came to a stop at one of the windows. "He forced her. I've got to kill him."

Grumman sat up straighter. His eyes were unreadable behind the sheen of his glasses.

"General Hakuro?"

"Him." He squinted past the sequins of light reflecting off the snow-covered rooftops. "She told me he took up with her in Ishbal. Grimy bastard used her then, and as if that wasn't enough, now this."

Grumman digested this information. He set the photograph down, facing away from him, and swallowed. Roy almost regretting telling him, but it was better that Grumman heard the story from him rather than an irate Jacob Hawkeye. Grumman was a trusted confidant, and someone who's opinion he valued. Maybe now they could both do something about Hakuro.

He slid his glasses down and pinched the break of his nose. "Did she _say_ she was raped?"

"She . . ." Roy drew his teeth together and tasted something cold and dry. "No. She never said that. She won't say it. There is a lot she hasn't been saying."

"If she refuses to testify, you will have a very hard time pressing charges," Grumman sighed. "Hell, even if she does testify, you will still have a hard time pressing charges against a General like Hakuro."

"I don't intend to _press charges_," he hissed.

His meaning was unmistakable. Grumman studied him warily.

"If you assault Hakuro you'll only end up in prison and nothing will be changed."

"So what are you saying?" Roy growled at his reflection in the windowpane and slammed a fist into the wooden sill with a satisfying crunch, "That I should just pretend like I don't know!? That I should just let him hurt her!?"

"No I wasn't saying that," Grumman snapped, showing a rare trace of temper. "Calm down Colonel." He picked up the plastic parakeet on the edge of his desk and held it out. "If you must break something, please break this instead of my window. It's ugly, and it won't cost me to fix."

Roy seized the parakeet ferociously, but instead of breaking it, he just held it as if he didn't quite know what to make of it. Some of the tension in his shoulders drained away as he ran a fingernail over the top of its head and down over the sloping beak. For a moment he just breathed and cradled the bird in his palms.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I won't break your bird."

"It's alright. I meant it when I said it was ugly." Grumman's mouth perked up at the corners. "But as I was saying, we need more information. This comes down to meaty questions that you probably don't want to delve into."

"Questions like what?" Roy flopped back into a chair facing the desk with a graceless thump.

"What exactly happened for starters?" he began. "As far as we know, only two people really know the answer to this. If what you say about her previous relations with the man is true, the matter isn't simple at all. I'm betting you don't fully understand the nature of that relationship."

Roy made an unintelligible noise of disgust, but Grumman continued unabated. "How much power did he have over her, and how much of what she let him do fell into the realm of full consent? How does one go about strictly defining an intangible concept like consent, and where do you draw the line? Physical force? Coercion? Ignorance? People don't write up and sign legally binding contracts before engaging in intimate activities, so everything about what happened is subjective. If Riza keeps tightlipped about the details, you have yourself a very sticky wicket. "

Roy mulled that over. "So if I could get her to tell me . . ."

"You also have to keep in mind that rape has only recently been recognized as a war crime. Because she was not injured and there don't seem to be any witnesses, there is very little proof beyond testimony at this time. Testimony is fragile, and you can be sure Hakuro will swing his weight around to keep his record pure," Grumman frowned. "There is the child of course, but paternity cannot be determined unless it is born with a full head of Hakuro's hair. More likely than not, _you_ will be implicated if the charges fall through. If we don't make a strong enough case, you and Riza's careers will be devastated."

Roy strummed his fingers on the armrest of the chair. "Sounds very risky."

"I can set people on his trail, but it will need to be as covert as possible," the General murmured.

"Couldn't you just have your people covertly off him in the middle of the night?" Roy asked, supplementing his remark with the appropriate neck-snapping hand gesture.

"It will be easier if his credibility has been destroyed first." Grumman lowered his glasses and locked eyes with Roy. "It looks a lot less suspicious if convicted criminals turn up dead than it does if Generals are mysteriously slain."

A dark gleam of understanding flashed in Colonel Mustang's eyes.

He leaned back in his chair and let the parakeet fall into his lap, "Ah."

* * *

Lieutenant Hawkeye looked up from the paperwork spread out before her when the office door opened. A relieved sigh escaped her mouth even as her eyebrows leapt up. Colonel Mustang sauntered in, nonchalantly brushing the creases of his uniform. 

"Colonel!" She jumped to her feet. "Colonel, where have you been?"

She had been agitated and alert all morning, ever since Lieutenant Havoc had informed her that the Colonel had come into the office with a scowl on his face, grouched at them, and then left with a cryptic story about seeing an old friend. After he didn't come back within his promised hour, she had grown even more worried. She was just beginning to consider searching for him when he returned, looking blank and lackadaisical. Hardly the sour glower the others had described to her. He looked like he'd been out for a walk.

He didn't answer her question, so she tried a different question.

"Why were you gone for so long?"

He ignored that question as well. Her confusion was further compounded. She frowned and opened her mouth to berate him, but irritation was quickly trumped by astonishment. She tried to contain her bewilderment and her embarrassment when he walked right up to her and didn't stop until he had all but backed her into her desk. She didn't visibly flinch, but she could feel all eyes in the room on them. She stepped backwards until she collided with the edge of her desk, and he hovered over her, close enough for her to smell something bittersweet on his breath.

"C-Colonel?" Her own breath hitched uncomfortably in her throat.

He didn't seem to notice her discomfort at his proximity. He didn't seem to notice much of anything. His dark eyes took a leisurely stroll over her face before he spoke.

"Do you dance Lieutenant?"

* * *

_She pursed her lips and exhaled. The human-shaped target at the end of the lane was thoroughly demolished from forehead to chest. All eight of her shots had tagged a vital area, but there was still something unsatisfactory about the third and fourth. They were each at least an inch off-center. A logical analysis would have told her that either of those shots would have been a death knell for anybody stupid enough to be in her line of fire. That was all that mattered to the military, but there was a certain sense of perfectionism that tended to consume her when she had a gun in her hands. She wanted a flawlessly symmetrical pattern._

_The human-shaped target wasn't challenging enough. Anybody could hit a big target like the chest, or even a smaller one like the head. Now, hitting each finger, that would have been a true test of marksmanship. But of course, hitting a finger was considered a miss when death was the primary objective, and wasting bullets was unthinkable, so she tested herself in other ways. _

_Did she have the precision to map out a perfect constellation on her target? There was a certain velvety romance about painting a smattering of stars across a black backdrop, so she punched out the night sky in the cardboard flesh of her hypothetical "victim." Constellations and stars were less murderous. Symmetrical. Poetic. Divine. Normally, she didn't get very ambitious. She usually made signs of the zodiac across the chest, and sometimes a constellation like Cygnus or Aquila, with a mark at the head, neck and both shoulders, like a long-necked bird with its wings spread wide._

_"That's very nice," said an unexpected voice._

_She turned and blanched when she saw who it was. General Hakuro was standing behind her looking at her target. She chastised herself for not hearing him approach and snapped into a hasty salute, but he only chuckled. _

_"At ease soldier." He leaned closer to get a better look at the target. She stiffened in surprise and . . . something else. It was something akin to curiosity. A different kind of curiosity than any she had ever known before. He studied her handiwork while she studied him with wide-eyed reverence. She had seen General Hakuro many times before, but never this close, and he had certainly never spoken to her before. Was he impressed with her skill? Pride soap-bubbled in her ribcage._

_He turned and gave her a smile that she found herself returning. His teeth were very straight and white._

_"Beautiful work, Hawkeye." He laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. "Absolutely beautiful."_

_He knew her name._

_She beamed. "Thank you, General."_

_She watched him walk away down the line and pressed the back of her palm to her cheek. It was hot with a blush._


	10. Colonel Mustang's School of Dance

A/N – The story is continuing at last. Continued thanks to those who haven't given up on this story. I'm willing to give details about my rather abrupt and unexplained absence to those who are curious, but I must inform everyone in advance that review replies will be delayed until I have viable internet access again. As another note, I came up with the idea for this story around this time last year, and I'm sticking to my original plan regardless of any recent or future manga developments that would seem to be conflicting.

* * *

**Chapter Nine – Colonel Mustang's School of Dance**

"Do you dance Lieutenant?" He looked at her, face maddeningly poised on the edge of a grin.

"No," she replied frostily. "Could you please stop leaning over me, Sir?"

But he was not to be deterred so easily. He had expected this reaction from her when he made up his mind to ask her. She was good at putting up a front of absolute resistance when she wanted to, but he was good at badgering.

"Not with me?" he asked innocently, "Or not with anyone?"

This remark seemed to bring her to a breaking point. She pinched her lips together and gave him a scorching admonitory glare, or at least she attempted to. She blinked several times, and he noticed a slight twitch of uncertainty in her jaw when he leaned closer. But his victory was short-lived.

"Not with anyone." She maneuvered around the hedge of his arms and slid to the other side of the desk in one fluid motion. "And I do not see the relevance of your asking the question because I do no intend to go to the ball next week anyway."

Roy's eyebrows jumped up. "Poor General Bennet. You have spurned him grievously."

"I don't even _know_ General Bennet, Sir." She pulled up a ream of files and shielded her face behind them under the guise of careful study. "And neither do you for that matter, so what are you on about?"

Roy looked around at his subordinates. Inevitably they were all watching his scene with Lieutenant Hawkeye, and they didn't even attempt stealth. Havoc was grinning sardonically. _Ah, arrogance_. Moments ago strolling up to Hawkeye and asking her to the ball had seemed like a perfectly logical and sane idea. He didn't think she'd have the gall to refuse him in front of an audience, but who was he kidding? Hawkeye had no qualms about making him look like an idiot in front of anyone and everyone when he deserved it. In fact, he suspected she rather enjoyed puncturing his ego at times. He wished he could swallow every word he'd spoken since he'd reentered the office. By the look on Havoc's face, he was enjoying his strikeout far too much.

A sensible man would have quit while he still had a shred of dignity. He didn't know what possessed him to keep after the subject.

"Do I detect some hostility, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"Colonel, I'm not going to that ball." The spiky tips of her hair bobbed over her screen of paperwork and the voice that came from behind her barrier was downright menacing. "End of story."

He smirked, mostly for the benefit of the men watching him. "We'll see about that."

* * *

He didn't attempt to get a straight answer out of her until much later. He decided the others didn't need to witness his failing if his plans went awry a second time, so he waited until they had all checked out for the day. That had given him several hours to stare at a pile of various forms and contemplate a strategy to persuade her to go to the ball with him, but time to ponder had not bolstered his confidence. He still had no idea what he would say.

For some reason all of his snazzy one-liners and Mustangisms fell short of acceptable. Those might have worked on other women, but not his First Lieutenant. She was much too smart for all of that nonsense, and she had a sophisticated insincerity radar. What did one say to impress a lady like Hawkeye anyway? He mulled over his options, and what he came up with was just short of disastrous. He had nowhere to begin, and there were several crippling flaws to all of his logic.

In the first place, he wasn't even sure his intentions were honorable. He could try to rationalize his reasons until his eyes crossed, but the truth was that he wanted her to be seen with him. General Grumman had just impressed upon him that their appearance of professional distance was important now more than ever, but territoriality had reared its ugly head. Hakuro would be there, and he had a perverse need to observe how he and Hawkeye responded to each other, on his own terms of course. He wanted her by his side, and he wanted Hakuro to acknowledge this. It felt like picking at a wound, it felt like he was jealously guarding something that wasn't his to keep, and it felt very childish.

In the second place, she was pregnant. He wasn't entirely certain what this meant or entailed. He had never been around a pregnant woman before for any length of time, and he didn't know what a woman was supposed to do when she was pregnant. Was it acceptable for her to appear at a dance? When would she start showing? He could ask Hughes about all those things, but he feared he would end up learning a great deal more than he ever wanted to know about the subject.

In the third place, how in the world was he going to be able to keep his hands off her? If he took her to the ball, it went without saying that they would have to dance and she would probably wear something mouthwatering. Obviously, he would try to stay within the bounds of propriety, but she could be one hell of a temptation sometimes. He didn't want to get slapped for holding her too close, but it was going to take a monumental feat of willpower to keep himself in check, willpower he wasn't entirely certain he possessed in enormous quantities.

In the fourth place, he was never going to hear the end of it from Hughes. The thought of his best friend giving him that knowing half-smile was enough to make him cringe. In Maes's mind, they would be as good as married if he took her to the ball.

By the time the last of his subordinates had trickled out for the evening, he still hadn't thought up a solution to any of these problems. In fact, they only seemed to get worse the more he thought about them, but Lieutenant Hawkeye was finally the only other person in the room. Plan or no plan, he could not waste this opportunity. So he cleared his throat.

Hawkeye looked up from her desk and rolled her eyes. Why did she have a bad feeling she already knew what this was about? "Can I help you, Sir?"

"Why won't you go to the ball, Lieutenant?" He cocked his head and looked at her like a dog waiting to play catch. "I think it's an excellent way for us to honor our dear new General Bennet and support our glorious military. It's the patriotic thing to do, and besides, I'm sure your figure would be showcased best in a form-fitting dress."

She fought down a rising blush. "Because Sir, I don't dance." She tried to make her expression especially hawkish. "And my figure is none of your concern."

He seemed to consider for a moment. "Hmm . . . I don't believe that."

She couldn't tell which of her statements that was in response to. She had to make him stop looking at her like that. He could have poured a jar of scorpions down her back, and she wouldn't have felt nearly as uncomfortable as he was making her feel now with just a look.

"I . . . I don't know how to dance," she admitted.

"You _what_?!" He dropped the pen he'd been fiddling with and gaped.

"Stop it." She glared at him until he snapped his mouth closed. "So what if I don't know how to dance? It's not something everybody needs to know how to do. It's trivial. It's meaningless. It's . . ." She made a vague gesture and trailed off into silence.

The Colonel still looked floored. "But Lieutenant, have you ever even tried?"

She clenched her hands together in her lap and stared down at her desktop. "No, not really."

"Not even when you're all alone in your apartment?" he asked. "Don't you ever just dance to yourself when nobody's watching?"

"Occasionally, maybe . . . I guess." She was feeling more and more flustered and embarrassed by the moment. She didn't like conversations she could not control. "But that's not the same thing. I don't know how to dance _properly_."

Roy's pupils moved rapidly to survey her from head to toe. She could almost see an idea she was not going to like forming in his mind. This was far out of the waters of her usual comfort zone, and it was disconcerting. Guns she could discuss. She knew all about Guns. Dancing was like speaking Xinges.

"I could teach you," he pronounced at last.

She couldn't hold back an unladylike snort of laughter. "Oh, I'm sure you could. Very funny, Sir."

"I'm serious." Roy's solemn expression didn't move, and she realized with a start that he probably _was_ serious. "I'll teach you to dance if you'll come to the ball with me."

"I don't think I'm one of those cases that can be fixed in a week." She smiled ruefully hoping to get a chuckle of agreement from him, but he shook his head decisively.

"I highly doubt that Lieutenant," he murmured. "I've seen the way you move."

She frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Never mind." He smothered a smile that was bordering on lascivious. "Look, why don't we start right now?"

It was her turn to gape. "_Here_?!?"

He stood up, pushed in his chair, and stretched. "Why not?"

She shook her head and looked back down at her work. "With all due respect Sir . . . you're nuts."

His shadow fell across her desk. "If I'm nuts, it's partly your fault Hawkeye. You really drive me crazy sometimes. Come on. Get up."

She gave him a very put upon look, but seeing as he was not going to leave her alone, she finally decided to indulge his silly little idea. She rose to her feet, glad to have the buffer of a desk between them, at least momentarily. He was looking at her very strangely, and a dizzying uncertainty was floating up her throat. If he actually intended to dance with her, he was going to have to be very close to her. Something in her wanted that touch and another something was frightened by her own craving. Wasn't she supposed to be fighting these feelings?

He didn't give her a chance to bolt. "Take my hand."

He extended his hand across the desk, and she obeyed his request without blinking. His fingers closed around her palm with surprising delicacy, whisper-light and cool. Their eyes met. The intensity of his gaze made her want to look down and away immediately, but she wasn't about to show any hint of the anxiety racing through her. That would be conceding the battle. She set her chin and didn't break the eye contact as he pulled her out from behind the desk and sidled closer to catch her other hand.

He knew she was nervous. Her stare was hard and uncompromising, but any show of outward composure meant nothing where she was concerned. He also knew she would only get angry, and quite possibly hurt him, if he told her to calm down, so he gave her a small, lopsided smile instead. She tipped her lashes down and looked at him in way that could only be described as hesitant. He never thought he'd see that expression on his Lieutenant's face, and he suspected nobody else ever would. Another expression that was his alone to see.

He couldn't think about how compelling she looked, or he'd lose his composure.

"Now . . . we don't have music, so that makes this a little more difficult . . ." He cleared his throat and looked down. "I think . . . just do what I'm doing with my feet."

He swayed through the steps of a very simple waltz, still holding both of her hands in his even though she remained inert. The effect was like dancing with a coat rack, a beautiful, blonde, lethal coat rack that was looking at him skeptically.

She raised an eyebrow. "Just do what I do? That's your idea of effective instruction?"

His response was swift and visceral. One of his hands moved to her waist and pushed her into motion. She allowed him to steer her closer to his chest, and his body's subtle imposition into her personal space finally forced her to move along with him.

He was as close as he dared. "Just humor me, Lieutenant."

She was staring at his feet, absorbed in the task of reproducing his steps, but that didn't stop her from getting in a retort. "I'd say that statement pretty much sums up our entire relationship, Sir."

"Ouch." He feigned a wince of pain. "Always going straight for the jugular."

She allowed herself to grin. "You need it."

By this time she was following him through the steps. Admittedly, it wasn't a very challenging dance, but he was impressed nonetheless. She was a quick and determined learner. He recognized the slight pucker of concentration in her brow from watching her take aim on the shooting range.

"Very good," he said. "I told you you'd be a natural."

She looked nonplussed. "You're not exactly demanding very much from me."

"Well, I can't teach you everything I know in one night," he smirked. "Besides, I need to save something for tomorrow's lesson."

She stopped abruptly. "Tomorrow's lesson?"

"But of course." He was still smirking at her as if he'd never seen anything more amusing. "And this time I think it should be somewhere besides the office. What do you say to meeting in the gym before work in the morning? You usually arrive at the crack of dawn anyway, and with any luck we'll beat everyone else."

She shook her head and bit down another smile. "I say are you actually going to get up that early?"

"You underestimate my tenacity on this matter, Hawkeye." He gave her a rakish look and started dancing her playfully across the room. "You will learn how to dance, you will come to the ball with me, and you will enjoy every trivial, meaningless moment of it."

* * *

The next morning, she decided it must have been sheer lunacy that prompted her to actually show up in the gym at the designated hour. She half-expected to find that he had completely forgotten the appointment, or at the very least, she expected him to show up late. She didn't think the Colonel could possibly be serious about something as inane as dance lessons.

So she was shocked to find him already there, leaning against a row of bleachers and tapping out a nervous cadence with his foot. He had shed his uniform jacket and thrown it in a heap on one of the bleachers, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His dark eyes lit up when he heard the door open. She was surprised to feel the corners her lips lifting up in relief.

He nodded to her and loped over eagerly. "Good morning, Hawkeye."

She slung her bag off her shoulder, put it on a nearby bleacher, and went to work unfastening her overcoat. "You're actually here Sir."

"And you doubted me?" His eyes followed the quick movements of her fingers over the buttons with a strange sort of anticipation. "Come on, let's see if you remember any of the steps from yesterday."

Her overcoat and jacket joined her bag on the bleacher. "Which ones? The waltz or that little improv number you did at the end?

"Both." He held out a hand expectantly.

She flicked out a hand, fingers extended, and made a great show of placing it carefully in his. He watched her hungrily, moistened his lips, and met her eyes. Half-smile. Raised eyebrow. Flashing teeth. There was a humming like tiny wings in her blood and then, with a sharp yank, he snapped her into his arms. A jagged breath scrambled up her throat and came out in a startled gasp.

He grinned. "If we are going to dance for real, I really ought to have my hand on your waist. You know that."

"That's more like my hip, Sir."

"Well, you know, those pants make it kind of hard to tell and all . . ."

"Yeah. Sure. Why don't we just dance?"

So they did. She didn't ask him to move his hand. So he didn't. They flowed across the floor in meandering circles. She picked up variations in the steps with ease, completely absorbed in the precision of her movements. If she concentrated especially hard, she could almost block out any other more troubling thoughts, like the ones that centered on Hakuro, her grandfathers, and her mother. She could almost attribute the jumpy feeling in her stomach to the simple thrill of the Colonel's touch, for indeed, her body's involuntary responses to him, while worrisome in their intensity, where far less unsettling than various alternatives. No matter how dangerous everything was becoming, and even if his fingers on the small of her back were a completely different kind of danger, the solidarity between them was inexpressibly soothing. The gym was quiet except for the rapid click-click of their boots on the floor and the electrical whine of distant ventilation fans.

"Have we run out of conversation then?" he asked after their fourth turn around the floor.

"I can't think of anything to say." She was concentrating on the dance. They had moved from waltzes to a more complicated Xinges Stagtrot somewhere after their first circle around the gym. "Was there something particular on your mind?"

His face grew serious, setting off tiny flares of panic in her chest. "Actually, there is something."

He spun her, outward and then into his arms, close enough to smell whatever delicious scent she wore. "We haven't really talked about what you told me that night at your apartment."

There. He'd mentioned it. He held his breath.

She brushed away a strand of hair that had escaped from her bun and fallen across her mouth. "I told you a great many things that night. What were you wishing to discuss?" _Her habits of alcohol consumption? The pills he'd found in her bathroom? Anything and everything that had transpired between them in her bedroom? (Which she may have remembered better than she would ever let on.) _

"General Hakuro," he said.

Her reaction was instantaneous and alarming. Her face froze, and all of her muscles stiffened. One moment, she had been a flesh and blood woman, and in the next instant he felt like he was holding a plank of wood. "What about him?"

He tightened his hold, dipping her backwards until she couldn't balance on her own feet. "You told me about Ishbal, but I want to know what happened while I was in the East before Christmas. You have been very dodgy about that part of the story. I've let you leave out those details because I know it must hurt to relive them, but this has gone past the limits of my patience and my sanity. I need to hear you pronounce his guilt, in no uncertain terms."

Her face contorted into what looked like anguish. "Colonel, Please . . ."

"No." She stumbled and almost fell when he suddenly released her, which seemed to be his intent. "What did he do to you, and why won't you tell me anything?"

She clung to his arm for balance and staggered to her feet. Suddenly dancing seemed a lot like fighting. "You wouldn't understand."

"So help me understand, Hawkeye." He took her hands again and pressed his fingers firmly into her wrists, "You've only told me the barest of facts. I need more to go on if I'm ever going to understand. You can start with Ishbal if that's easier. How and why did you even start . . . seeing him, and why did it become recurring? What was he holding over your head?"

"I . . ." She couldn't speak. Telling him about the dirty indiscretions of her youth was like ripping out a sliver. "You don't know what it's like. . . You don't know. It's easier for you to think he forced me, and I was a helpless innocent, isn't it?" She laughed humorlessly. "How could I possibly have had a hand in my own destruction?"

He sped up the pace. "Well you can't honestly tell me you knew what you were doing when you were eighteen."

She stopped, seized control of the dance, and took the lead with narrowed eyes. "Don't presume to know my mind, Sir."

Roy looked bewildered and then lost for a moment. "I'm not . . . I just . . . I just want the truth."

"_The truth_?" She sashayed him violently around the floor, and he didn't fight her. "The truth is that I cared for him. Perhaps more than I wanted to admit to myself. Nobody ever treated me with that kind of importance before. It is true, I didn't want to sleep with him, but I was so lonely out there in that encampment. Hardly anyone spoke to me, people were dying all around me, and I was starting to feel like I had become something—else, something savage. Nothing felt even remotely real. I would have conceded anything for a measure of affection, something—anything—to remind me that I was still human."

That stopped him. "A measure of affection!?" he hissed. "He just wanted you naked, and you . . . you, let him . . .!"

They had stopped dancing. He dropped her hands with a growl that sounded half pained, half frustrated.

"Be careful, Sir," she whispered. "That savors strongly of jealousy."

He drew in closer to her and spoke quietly. "I don't care what you think it sounds like. I know you are worth more than the fulfillment of his sick fantasies. He doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you. You can't possibly think he saw you as more than a beautiful plaything. That's an insult to your intelligence."

"Of course I know that now. Of course I do, but I was different back then. We were both different, and I think you know better than most how war changes everything a person will or won't do. You were my only friend out there, and you had become so withdrawn ever since they made you use that ring. I could not reach you when you were being that way. Maybe Hakuro didn't care at all, but at least he paid attention to me." She lashed out on instinct and nearly choked when she heard the acidic words that poured softly from her mouth.

He looked like he'd been sucker-punched in the gut, and she supposed she didn't look any better. She knew that in this instance, speaking the truth was a very grave error. Even worse was the cruel clarity of hindsight. True as her feelings of abandonment had been in Ishbal, all of her assumptions about his disregard for her were wrong, and she knew it. Accusing him of indifference was cutting deeper than usual. Lately, it seemed that half their conversations erupted into violent spats. Feelings were too close to the surface, and their words were starting to draw blood.

She was frantic to close the latest wound and mop up her guilt. "I didn't mean . . ."

"No," he interrupted her. "You're right. I should have told you long ago . . . But I was too busy being a jerk. For some reason I thought I was protecting you by keeping my distance, and I was worried about what my friends might think if they saw us together. Which is ludicrous when I think about it. You've always mattered more than any of them, but I pushed you away with both hands."

He took her hands again. "And now this is driving us apart."

As if to emphasize his point, he pressed their palms together. As if he could stop their slow iceberg drift away from each other by lacing his fingers through hers. The tips of their boots nudged against each other, and she looked up at him. His features were marred with a desperation that went deeper than desire or regret. A new sort of fear had begun to take hold of him, and worry was beginning to carve permanent furrows in his face. For a thoughtless moment, she wanted nothing more than to smooth out his rumpled forehead, but she was quick to remember herself. He was speaking again.

"I don't think I can afford to lose you, Lieutenant. I'm not strong enough anymore." It was a needless confession because, intuitively she had known, and he had known, and everybody around them had known this for quite some time, but his mouth gave the truth a flavor and a tangibility that could not be tactfully ignored.

She responded to his bruising grip by pressing her fingers into the gaps between his knuckles just as tightly. Her message was clear. This was real. She would not break. This was her standing with him, and she wasn't going anywhere.

"I refuse to be lost," she said. "No matter what happens, I won't leave."

He shook his head. "You shouldn't promise things you can't guarantee."

"Life is never guaranteed," she told him. "But I am strong, and I am giving you my word as a soldier and as your friend. While there is breath in my body, I will protect you, and I will not be separated from you. Who says I'm strong enough to do anything else?"

His smile came in a sigh that stirred the curtain of her bangs. "I'll hold you to that, Hawkeye."

Their gazes stuck and held for a sticky moment. Neither was sure what ought to follow the exchange. She had a secret little thought about kissing the edge of his jaw, just to see what he would do, and the thought was becoming more and more appealing with each second that he just stood there staring at her. Dangerously appealing, in fact. She had to distract herself.

"And I thought you were taking me to the ball, Mustang," she said quickly. "Come on. We've got about fifteen minutes before we've got to be in the office, and you promised a dance lesson."

"Alright, alright." He smiled fondly at her. "I suppose that's enough discussion for one day."

* * *

The dance lessons continued every morning that week, and Lieutenant Havoc was the first to discover their secret, completely by accident.

In the interest of firming up to impress his latest love interest, he had decided to make an early trip to the gym. He wasn't anticipating anything remotely entertaining about the excursion, so he nearly dropped his bag and his running shoes when he saw his commanding officer skirting the floor with Lieutenant Hawkeye in his arms. Dancing. And they were doing a very serviceable Stagtrot. At first he was quite certain that he was seeing things, but even after he pinched himself several times, the sight before him still remained.

He couldn't seem to keep his mouth closed.

They had both discarded their jackets in a pile (one neatly folded, and one a crumpled wad) in a corner of the bleachers, and they hadn't noticed him walk in. They were too wrapped up in each other.

He smiled and watched them for a moment. They moved together seamlessly . . . that is, until she stepped on his foot.

"Ouch," Roy yelped and steadied her when she almost fell.

"Sorry." She recovered from the near trip. "I told you I'm no good at this one."

Havoc grinned. He could tell even from where he was standing that Roy wouldn't have cared if she danced over his feet again and again. The man was so incredibly whipped. It didn't seem like he could find enough excuses to touch her.

"I was still thinking," he was telling her. "Since you don't seem to like 'Thor,' I've come up with a few back-up names."

Hawkeye sighed. "Such as?"

"Lancelot. I think that's a good name."

She made a choked noise. "Dare I ask what you've come up with for a girl?"

"Rize Junior, of course," he quipped.

_Riza Junior?_ Havoc's eyebrows shot up. What were they talking about? A new cat? In any case, the Colonel seemed to have elicited the desired response from his Lieutenant. She sagged against his chest and dissolved into laughter. Mustang, for his part, could only grin like an idiot, and Havoc was completely beside himself with joy. For once both of his superior officers were in a good mood, and with any luck, he and the others would be able reap the benefits of their infatuated haze.

And if not, the others were still going to owe him a great deal of money when Mustang and Hawkeye came to Bennet's promotional ball together after all.


	11. Bennet's Ball

My continued apologies for my continued absence and the longish delays between posts. Here is a longish chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Ten - Bennet's Ball**

Maes Hughes was having an excellent evening, and he could tell it was only going to get better. His darling baby girl was at home playing sock puppets with the babysitter, his wife was a vision in black chiffon, and he was on his way to General Bennet's promotional ball with his best friend and his best friend's future wife. Though, admittedly, Roy hadn't realized that last part yet.

He had been shocked and overjoyed when Roy had phoned him to ask if he and his Lieutenant could share a cab with Gracia and him on the night of the ball. With further prodding, Roy had conceded that he and Riza Hawkeye were indeed going together, but it was purely as platonic friends and coworkers who didn't want to go dateless to an obligatory ball. When he had innocently tried to insinuate that something more was going on, Roy had growled something about setting his office on fire if he made any wisecracks, proving without a doubt that something more was unquestionably going on.

Yes, his evening was shaping up quite nicely, and this cab ride was the icing on the cake. Sitting across from the pair and watching Roy struggle not to stare at his subordinate was very gratifying. He knew he could not share a glance with Gracia or he would start openly chuckling.

Of course, Maes had known when they stopped to pick up Lieutenant Hawkeye that Roy Mustang was a dead man. They sent him up to her apartment to fetch her while they waited with the cab, and when he returned ten minutes later with his subordinate in tow, he looked impossibly agonized and elated at the same time. At first Roy's behavior seemed rather puzzling, but when Maes caught sight of Hawkeye moments later, it all made sense.

Any idiot could have seen that Riza was very attractive, in every sense of the word. Even when she was the straight-laced Lieutenant Hawkeye at work, her charm was undeniable, but the powder blue gown she was wearing tonight put a few things into perspective.

The first was that military uniforms could hide many, many sinfully sublime secrets, and the second was that it was a very, very good thing they did, or Roy would never get any work done. Maes had seen them work together smoothly on and off the battlefield, and he had seen the depths of their devotion demonstrated enough times to know that blossoming romance was inevitable, but he had always thought of them as the equivalent of an old married couple, at ease and intimately familiar with each other's mannerisms and oddities, and settled into a stagnant routine. This was an eye-opening reminder that they were not old, they were not married, and there was nothing stagnant about the way they were looking at each other.

He remembered what it was like with Gracia in the beginning of their relationship, the pins-and-needles anticipation, the doubt, the curiosity, things he used to _want_—still wanted just as much actually, but not with the same urgency of unfulfilled hunger. He could at least behave himself in public places now, which, he was beginning to think, would be rather difficult for the pair across from them to manage for an entire night if this cab ride was any indication.

It was this powerful undercurrent of attraction that would ruin their carefully constructed routine one way or another. After all, one could survive loving someone at a distance for their spirit, their mind, and even their aesthetic beauty to a certain extent. Desire would be the final leak in the dam, and once that was loose, all other things would burst free from the floodgates.

For her part, Hawkeye kept a graceful cool even though she knew the Colonel was staring. She complimented Gracia's dress, and Hughes's wife responded in kind. Since Mustang didn't seem particularly chatty, and Hughes was content to sit and smile smugly, they did most of the talking for the rest of the ride. Only when the conversation turned to Elysia would Maes pipe in with a choice remark or two.

The streets of central blurred by the windows in various shades of watery grey and white. There was still snow on the ground and the gloomy precipitation was never ending, but now it had turned from flurries to freezing rain. All in all, it was a very dreary day for a party, but Hughes wasn't about to let that stop his excellent evening. And, he decided as an afterthought, Roy was going to have an excellent evening as well, even if he didn't know it yet.

* * *

They entered the ballroom fashionably late, as the famed Flame Alchemist of Central was wont to do. A few eyes widened at the sight of Lieutenant Hawkeye on his arm, but surprisingly, a great portion of the ball's patrons didn't seem at all surprised. Whether this was because they didn't recognize her as his 'gun arm,' or because they'd simply grown accustomed to seeing her always at his side, he wasn't entirely certain. He _was_ certain that he did _not_ like the way some of the men were watching her, which was odd when he thought about it. He used to enjoy having dates that made other men gawk.

The tight press of people seemed to part all around them. He allowed her to lead him because she appeared to know where she was going and focused his attention on scanning the crowds. Hakuro was not in the immediate vicinity. The immediate vicinity was a jumble of suits and long silk dresses. The high, cake-mold ceiling glowed in the light of three gargantuan chandeliers, and somewhere to his left, it sounded like a live orchestra was playing. He couldn't see past the multitude of heads or hear anything but the softest hiss of a melody, but it added a backdrop of elegance that transcended the strangeness of the scene. He'd seen many of these same people crammed into foxholes and dugouts, caked in dirt, blood, and other unknown and unsavory substances. Hawkeye as well, but she was different.

They split up with Maes and Gracia when the Lieutenant Colonel spotted one of the junior officers in his department. Evidentially, the hapless man was in need of an Elysia update, but Hughes promised to reconvene with them later in the evening. Roy could swear he saw Gracia shake her head wearily as she followed after her husband, but she was smiling fondly even as she did so.

They kept looking for any of Roy's own subordinates, and at last, they found Havoc loitering around the refreshment table trying to intercept anything female. He was in the middle of saying something he probably thought was very witty to a girl who was trying to escape with her glass of punch when he caught sight of them. His words tapered off. The girl snuck away.

"Good Lord, Hawkeye." He gulped and struggled to fix his thunderstruck expression. "I-I mean, good evening Colonel, and Lieutenant . . . er—uh, sogoodofyoutoshowup."

Roy smirked. "Yes, seeing as it is my obligation to attend such events, I have come. What about you, Havoc? You are looking a little peaked. Is everything alright?"

"Yes," he squeaked. "So she's your date then?"

"Of course." He smiled lazily, as if this fact was a given and concerned him very little. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

As if she was a particularly nice painting he'd happened to stumble upon. As if he could take his eyes off her any time he chose to. As if beauty wasn't an understatement. Hawkeye just rolled her eyes as if she didn't care what he called her.

"Yes, Sir." Havoc gave her a daring once-over before turning desperately to address the punch bowl. "Very nice."

Roy continued to smirk. "So, have you seen the good General?"

"Which one?" Havoc said still looking helplessly at the punch. "Grumman? Bennet? Hak—"

"Bennet. He is the honored party after all. I thought I'd offer my congratulations."

"Oh," Havoc replied. "I don't know. I did see him when I walked in, but then I saw Fury, and I had to talk to him. Did you know he has a date?"

"Really?" Hawkeye actually smiled a bit at that.

"Oh yes," Havoc nodded. "Cute little thing too. Mindy or Molly or something like that. Anyway, they're probably somewhere on the dance floor right now."

He gestured toward the center of the room where the crowd had thinned away, leaving a large space in front of the musicians for countless couples to dance. As people said their greetings and warmed up to the party, the crowds were shrinking and the ranks of dancers continued to expand.

"You know," Roy exchanged an amused glance with Hawkeye. " Breda, Falman, and you really might consider taking a leaf or two out of Fury's book occasionally. He's not all that bad with the ladies."

"That's only because he's got that whole 'sensitive' thing going on," Havoc snorted in a tone that clearly conveyed his disgust. "Besides, I _had_ a girlfriend, until a certain Colonel made us all transfer to Central."

"Hmm," Roy was already scanning the dance floor with interest. "Yes, that is unfortunate. However, I think you can recover from the incident. Lieutenant Hawkeye, perhaps we should try to find the Master Sergeant on the dance floor."

"If that was your way of asking me to dance with you, Sir, I feel obligated to tell you that your line needs work," Hawkeye deadpanned. "Lots of work."

"Would you prefer me to say, dance with me or I shall die of longing?"

He put a hand dramatically to his heart, and a faint shade of pink stole across her face. But she was quick to regain her composure, and tell him to knock it off before someone saw him behaving that way. He repeated his request for a dance, and Havoc had to admit he was nothing if not persistent. It was also mildly disconcerting to watch his superior officers flirting so openly.

In the end, she was persuaded. The pair drifted away from the refreshment table with a, "See you later, Havoc," from the Colonel. Havoc even thought he heard the Lieutenant mutter to him under her breath, "Please dispense with the theatrics, Sir," before they were out of earshot.

"Good grief." Suddenly, he desperately wanted a smoke.

* * *

"Who knew that putting you in a dress would tongue tie our poor Lieutenant Havoc," Roy said as they swept across the dance floor in time with the other couples. "If I had known that, I would have arranged for such a thing earlier to repay him for his little mistletoe stunt."

"Very funny." She scowled at him. "You do know that as a Lieutenant in the Amestrian military, I am allowed to carry a concealed weapon on my person. _At all times_."

"I hadn't forgotten." He grinned mischievously. "Maybe it'd be worth a few bullets just to see where you've stashed it this evening."

"Ever the gentleman," she sighed. "I should have known."

He could only chuckle.

So far, they hadn't seen Fury, or anyone else they knew for that matter. Not that either of them was looking especially hard. They had already danced two songs, and Hawkeye was pleasantly surprised to find that she was actually enjoying herself. She danced well enough, and the Colonel more than made up for any of her stumbling. That they were hardly the most coordinated or talented couple on the floor was inconsequential. The Colonel had done nothing but smile since they first started, and that was more enough.

"So are you—oops, I'm sorry ma'am," Roy quickly apologized when they nearly collided with another couple.

And before he knew what was happening, they were face to face with General Hakuro and his wife. Recognition snapped across every face, and all four of them halted mid-step. This didn't seem to form much of an obstruction for the other dancers. They just glided on around them without pause. Roy felt Hawkeye go stiff beside him and reflexively moved to place himself slightly in front of her, but he didn't take his eyes off Hakuro.

It was incredibly easy to picture the man as a singed pile of ashes. He wondered why he never had before. He wondered if he could possibly manage to remove his gloves from his pocket before Hawkeye noticed what he was doing. As it was, she was gripping his arm with bone-crushing intensity and already beginning to pull back. He wouldn't move.

"Colonel Mustang," Hakuro's upper lip twitched into a condescending sneer, the same sneer he always used to great lower ranking officers. "Good evening."

"Evening, General." He nodded curtly.

The palpable undercurrent of menace in the Colonel's pleasant tone made the hairs on the back of Riza's neck stand on end. She had never heard him sound like that before. One glance at the general's fluttery wife told her she wasn't the only one who had felt it. The other woman's eyes widened, but her brows drew together in confusion. She wasn't sure what she was sensing.

Riza was very aware. She was aware of the Colonel's muscles tensing up under her vice-like grip. She could _feel_ him looking for a reason to strike. She didn't care at all about Hakuro. She'd seen him in public before, plenty of times, and he could be relied upon to act the part of a disinterested General. All she knew was she wanted her Colonel far away from him before he did something he would regret. She didn't want her honor defended. She didn't want a confrontation. She wanted to play along with Hakuro, and pretend. It was so much easier that way.

Unfortunately, Roy was new to the game.

"Tabitha, this is Colonel Mustang and his Lieutenant. Hawkeye, I believe." Hakuro appeared to puzzle over her name, as if she was only an insignificant underling. "Officers, this is my wife, Tabitha."

"Pleased to meet you." His wife smiled nervously, like a mouse being politely presented to a pair of cats.

Riza murmured a proper reply and glanced furtively at the Colonel. He hadn't said a word. The ballroom felt insufferably hot, and dread formed a writhing lump in her stomach.

"My, my, you and your subordinates do clean up nicely, Colonel," Hakuro's eyes crinkled good-naturedly, and he was careful not to show his teeth as he spoke. "But seeing this one on your arm is hardly surprising, really. All the men of Central must be—"

"Enough!" Roy snarled through his teeth. "She is none of your concern."

And she couldn't breathe. Could horror suffocate a person? Dimly, she registered Hakuro closing his mouth into a frown, and his wife shrinking behind him in terror, but it was all too brief. Roy moved faster than she would have thought possible. Before she had time to react, she felt the fabric of his glove against the bare skin of her shoulder, and she was being softly but instantly pushed away.

He propelled her through the crowd, keeping his fingertips on her shoulder, and she acquiesced to the treatment because it really would be better for everyone if they were both as far as humanly possible from Hakuro. Her Colonel could not afford to make a scene for her sake. As it was, there was already a great deal of damage.

When they had crossed to the other side of the floor, she spun around. "Why did he say that?"

"Because he's an asshole," Roy growled.

They had stopped in front of a row of windows on the wall furthest from the entrance. The night was inky, and its cold breath was fogging the edges of every pane. No stars. Just tiny freckles of reflected lights that seemed to glimmer and wink in the raindrops clinging to the glass. The festivities continued all around them, loud, lyrical and muffling. Nobody was looking in their direction.

"No," she hissed. "He wouldn't pull something like that . . . unless he knows."

"What?"

"He wants to make it public knowledge that you and I . . ." She shook her head, stopping herself. "Colonel, General Hakuro is discreet about these things unless he has a reason to pull strings. Of course, he expects you to think he was only saying it to provoke you, but I think he's covering. Somehow he knows—"

"That you're preg—"

"Yes!" She put a hand to her temples, furious with herself. "He _always_ finds out these things! And now . . . Oh God, how could I have been so stupid?"

"Are you sure he wasn't just trying to make me angry?" Roy muttered. "Because he did a hell of a job."

"More than angry, Sir," she whispered. "If Hakuro is trying to throw the nature of our relationship into question, not only will he wash his own hands, but he will drag your career through the mud."

"_My career_?" Roy clenched his fists. "Jesus, Hawkeye, don't you ever think about yourself?"

But she didn't seem to be listening to him. She was calculating. "We should never have come to this ball together. We're too close as it is."

"Don't say that." Roy was surprised to find himself using a softer tone. "Nothing he can do would ever keep me from you. Closeness be damned, Hawkeye. Why does everyone else get to decide what we are allowed?"

"You made your choice when you chose to walk this path," she said. "I made my choice when I decided to follow you. Neither of us can decide to play the victim of circumstance now, and I know you. You will continue to play by their rules because you must. You've come too far to throw it all away, and you would never be happy if you did."

He looked at her for a long time. She was right, of course. The quest was everything, but she wouldn't want to hear that he couldn't go on without her by his side. She'd tell him to stop being so ridiculous. Because loving her really was ridiculous. By all accounts, it would be so much easier to accomplish his goals if he could simply stop having such feelings immediately. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to choose between everything he ever wanted, and her. She was part of that package.

"Sir?"

Her inquiry brought him out of his thoughts and back into the ballroom, back into her bourbon eyes looking at him with concern. She really was more alluring than anyone had any right to be. He didn't want to think about anything else. Not tonight. Tonight she wasn't pregnant.

"You know what, Lieutenant?" He gave her the lopsided smirk. "I like this song."

"Wha—" She stared at him like he'd just confessed his undying love for paperwork, but he took her hand anyway.

"I don't want him to come between us tonight. I don't care what he tells people, and I don't care what they say. Tomorrow we can do all the necessary damage control, but tonight . . ." He laced their fingers together. "Just dance with me."

* * *

Later in the night, after they'd made several turns around the dance floor, Roy finally found General Bennet. Hawkeye muttered a thin lie about sitting down for a bit, and they parted company. He knew very well that she didn't want to be guided through prescribed introductions and niceties with the brass that he shamelessly flattered for his own manipulative reasons.

As it turned out, Bennet and his wife were gathered with another Colonel and his wife, and the men and women were holding two simultaneous conversations, one about his recent election, and one about the decoration committee's choice of flowers for the evening. The deeper tones of, "Probably was all Michael's doing," and the lilting "Roses would have be much prettier," crossed each other at competing volumes with occasional spillover if someone's spouse had anything to contribute to the other discussion.

All eyes went to him as he approached.

"Colonel Mustang," Bennet's grin already spoke of a few glasses of celebratory champagne. "I was wondering when we'd get the chance to talk to you."

"Really," he said laconically.

"Yes," one of the wives (he couldn't tell which) declared. "We want to know about the Fullmetal Alchemist. There have been so many rumors, but the boy is always out and about, so nobody knows for certain."

"Fullmetal?" Roy had to fight to smother a scowl. "What's so important about him?"

"Is it true he's only twelve?"

"Twelve?" He had to laugh at that one. "Well, he did get his license then, but that was about three years ago, I believe. Kid's got real talent."

"I see," the other Colonel said. "And I understand from the reports that you discovered this prodigy in some backwater village out East."

"It's not exactly backwater . . ." he began.

"Colonel Mustang?" Roy turned at the sound of a voice behind him.

The interrupter was a man he had never met before, but he wasn't altogether surprised that someone he didn't know recognized him. Many people knew of the Flame Alchemist by reputation. This man looked to be about his age, perhaps older. His most notable features were the long black cornrows he had neatly tied back at the nape of his neck, and the impressively broad shoulders that seemed to strain against his constricting suit jacket. He carried himself like a soldier, clearly an officer and not somebody's guest, but his stance visibly faltered when Roy turned to acknowledge him.

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, that's me."

"Of course." The other man laughed nervously. "I am Second Lieutenant Elijah Stanton. I recently transferred from Western Headquarters. You've probably never heard of me."

Roy wondered if this Lieutenant Stanton had a point. Usually only very small children and moonstruck old ladies asked him for autographs.

"Anyway . . ." The other man cleared his throat. "I came over here to ask you about the woman you came with."

Roy's look of pleasant interest turned into a frown of confusion. "Lieutenant Hawkeye?" He instinctively looked over at her to make sure she was still exactly where he had left her. She appeared to be quite fine, sitting at the table his little group had relegated to themselves and talking quietly to Breda.

"Yes." Stanton followed his gaze in her direction. His next question caught Roy completely by surprise. "Is it alright if I ask her to dance?"

"What?" Roy looked around at his present company uneasily. "Why are you asking my permission?"

Stanton shrugged, oblivious to the tension. "I just thought . . ."

"Well, whatever you think isn't correct," Roy said carefully, making sure his response was audible to all of those standing in the circle. "Ask her if you'd like. I'm not my Lieutenant's keeper."

Stanton beamed. "Thank you, Sir."

He gave him a small bow, and began to weave purposefully through the crowd in Hawkeye's direction. Roy watched curiously, while trying to appear involved in the conversation at hand. It was a difficult and frustrating undertaking. What sort of intentions did this Stanton guy have anyway? How come, of all the available ladies in the room, he had decided to become enamored with his Lieutenant? Couldn't he see that she was clearly, clearly, clearly already taken? Apart from a glowing neon sign, he didn't see how this could be more obvious. True, he had denounced any claim he had to her when Stanton had asked, but what else could he do surrounded by a group of spectators? And, it wasn't like he owned her, so of course he had to back down. He couldn't really forbid other men from asking her to dance.

_Or could he? _

Maybe there was an unexplored angle he could exploit to his own advantage. Maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe . . .

"Colonel Mustang?"

"Hmm . . . what?"

"I was just showing the ladies because they were curious," Bennet said. "That is your First Lieutenant, correct?"

He pointed over to where she sat with Breda. Roy nodded. That was Hawkeye.

"She's lovely," one of the wives simpered, and the other nodded in agreement.

He smiled thinly. "Is she?"

Stanton was standing before her now. His lips were moving, but it was too impossibly far away to tell what he was saying. Roy could tell it was effective though. Hawkeye's fingers went to her face. She smiled, brushed at a wayward lock of hair, and said something in response. Stanton bowed and extended a hand. She looked at Breda hesitantly. Roy supposed she was asking if it was alright if she left him sitting alone, but the Second Lieutenant only shrugged and pulled his plate of hors d'oeuvres closer. So she took Stanton's offered hand.

He was going to have to have a few words with Breda later.

"Bet the rumors must get tiring though, don't they Mustang?" the other Colonel was saying with a grin. "Pretty coworkers can be so problematic some times."

Roy watched her dancing with Stanton.

"You have no idea."

* * *

And so the rest of the evening went. Roy was shuttled around from group to group, until it seemed like there couldn't possibly be a single superior officer in attendance that he hadn't been introduced to. He exchanged brief words with Fury and his charming date, and spent some time at the table with Maes, Gracia, Breda, Falman, and Hawkeye. But to his supreme irritation, he never got another chance to dance with her. Every time he finally had an opportunity to escape the current conversation, Lieutenant Lovesick or another equally annoying interloper would already have her in his arms. It was as if once Stanton had gotten the okay from him, his date had become fair game.

He tried to content himself by dancing a few songs of his own with various fawning females, but he could never properly enjoy himself because Hawkeye never looked sufficiently jealous, which was the entire point if he was honest with himself. And this upset him even more because clearly he was far more bothered by her other dance partners than she was by his, and he didn't like this new development at all.

As the night wound down and he found himself watching her and Stanton from the sidelines for the third time, he finally resigned himself to his pettiness. He was going to have to cut in. Or at the very least, snag her before the next song. Besides Stanton had already claimed more than enough of her attention, and he didn't know how much more of that man he could stomach.

It seemed to take an eternity for the song to end, but at last the dancers slowed to a stop. Stanton bowed gallantly, and said something that was no doubt supposed to be flattering. To Roy's amazement, the line actually seemed to work. Reticent, gun-totting, ever-serious Riza Hawkeye blushed and lowered her eyes. It was maddening.

To his relief, she elected to excuse herself before the next dance started. He seized his opportunity.

She was just about to pour herself a glass of water when Roy caught up with her. Her face was still flushed, and her eyes were bright with the kind of excitement that comes from being wanted by a handsome stranger. Truly, she wasn't entirely certain what had come over her, but Lieutenant Stanton's bold and undisguised interest in her was exciting. If she didn't know any better she would say she was feeling giddy from it all.

"There you are, Sir." She flashed him a dazzling smile, oblivious to his stormy countenance. "I must say I think you were right about balls. I rather like them after all."

"Hawkeye," he said. "Can I speak to you for a moment?"

"About what?"

"Just come with me." His fingers curled around her arm.

"What are you—?" She didn't get to finish that sentence because he was already leading her across the floor.

There was a balcony off to the side of the ballroom with the doors thrown partway open against the chilly air. It was still drizzling, but the eaves shielded a small, shadowy section of the balcony from the downpour, and he pushed her into this spot. Away from any and all prying eyes and ears.

She shivered slightly at the cold, and he was quick to hold her against him, as tightly as pretense would allow. She didn't protest. It was nice to feel her back against his chest. Not charged at the moment. Just nice. She was real and warm, and no one was there to see him press his nose into her hair.

"Who was that guy?" he asked her. She didn't need to know he had sent Stanton over. He'd have absolutely no logical reason to be upset if she knew that. As it was, logical reasons were already beginning to desert him.

She bit her lip. "Lieutenant Elijah Stanton, transferred from Western Headquarters. I just met him, but he seemed very nice."

"Oh I see. Well you certainly looked pretty cozy with him on the dance floor."

She watched the water dribble from the roof just out of her reach and felt him sigh against her. "Is that what this is all about?"

He figured lying to her was useless at this point. "Yes. That's what this is all about."

She was silent. He could imagine the mixture of shock and confusion dancing across her face. He didn't want to be admitting these things. But he had to. It was far past time, and he was sick of the mistaken impressions that came from lying to each other.

"I wish I didn't care who you dance with," he whispered.

She drew in a sharp breath and consciously fought to keep all of her limbs still. Roy Mustang was admitting to jealousy, and while she should have been irritated at his possessiveness, she couldn't squash the thrill that ran through her, and her treacherous body was on the verge of a tremble at his closeness.

"I thought . . ." She gulped. Why was it so hard to form coherent sentences with his arms around her? "I thought it would be better if we danced with other people. You know we can't seem too attached."

"Do you like him?"

"I—well—I . . . He was very nice."

"Nice?"

"I don't know, Roy—I mean Sir," she stammered. "He _was_ nice. But not . . . Wait a second! You were dancing with other women tonight! Should I be asking _you_ about _them_?"

"So you did notice that?" He smiled to himself, glad that she couldn't see his amusement. "But if you really must change the subject, I'll tell you what you want to hear. They meant nothing to me, and I think you know exactly why."

She didn't respond. Her mouth was too dry. The rain seemed very loud in the silence, and the darkness beyond the balcony was formless and strange.

"It's not right," he continued in a voice that was barely a breath against her ear. "I shouldn't want . . . the things that I want."

She was shivering again, pulling away from him. "That makes two of us."

"I cannot ask you to wait for me," he said. "Other men are going to want you, and I have no right to hold you back. I think you know that I care for you, but we can't be closer until I know you wouldn't be in danger because of it. I just can't risk it." He sighed. "And the truth is, I don't know if it will ever be safe. My future is not exactly promising, and you could have so much more if you were with a guy like Stanton. He could give you . . ."

"But I don't want him," she interrupted. "I've already decided what I want, and I won't let you of all people tell me what you think is best for me. I'm with you because I want to be with you. In whatever capacity, I am needed. I don't care what that means. I've never cared."

"You'd throw it all away?"

"Throw all what away? Your dream is my dream," she reminded him. "To help you rise, to stand by your side, to be someone you can trust. I want all of those things. What am I throwing away?"

"Normalcy?" he suggested.

"You've got a lot to learn about me if you think I want that, Sir."

He spun her around to face him, and she didn't look away from his examining gaze. She smiled, giving him a small acknowledgement of the truth of what she'd said. She meant every word. He cupped her cheek in one hand and teased the light tufts of hair in front of her ear.

"You really would wait for me," he murmured almost to himself.

She nodded into his palm.

His face broke into a wide grin when he realized what she had just promised. In all honesty, she'd already made the promise to herself years before, but that made little difference. Now he knew, now he believed her, and now he understood. She belonged to him. And he looked as if he couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry.

Instead, he took her hand and spun her around in a wide arc that brought her out into the rain for a moment, but she didn't care. She continued the dance and took him with her until they were cavorting in circles around the balcony. Freezing droplets dotted every open patch of her skin; they were in her hair, on her eyelashes, and against her mouth. Anyone who passed by the balcony could have seen them, but there was only one thought of him, smiling like the world was a mad place. And for once, he didn't seem to mind the insanity.

Finally, he stopped mid-turn, and pulled her back under the eve, watching her as she used her free hand to stifle a giggle. He wasn't as cold as he thought he should be, and also very aware of what the rain had done to her dress. Her formidable combination of sex appeal and charm very nearly undid him.

"I could make it all the way to the top if I knew you'd be mine at the end of it all." He brought her hand up to his lips and pressed them into her palm, eliciting a startled gasp from her.

The action jerked an invisible hook below her navel. Something resonant purred within her, and a low, longing hum escaped her mouth.

This was different. Roy's lips against her skin were so achingly different from any other touch she had experienced. His mouth was soft against the map of lines on her palm, and heaven help her, she was feeling weak in the knees.

Roy felt her gasp and shudder when he kissed her. At first he thought it was the cold and the wet that were making her so quivery, but when she made that soft noise of pleasure and distress in her throat, he knew it was more than that. He knew it was more than that, and suddenly it was very hard to make himself stop. He wanted to press her against the wall and consume her. He wanted to touch her, and if her behavior was any indication, she wanted to be touched just as badly.

He tightened his grip on her waist and reluctantly released her hand to give her a small, cattish grin. She swallowed and brushed a strand of damp hair off her forehead. They were far too close to be mistaken for a platonic pair of officers and his arms were shaking slightly, as if he was fighting to rein himself in. She didn't know if she wanted him to succeed or not.

"And the child?" she whispered. "Are you sure you want . . ."

"I don't care. You are the only woman I'll ever want, and I wouldn't care if you had five children and a camel." His lips twitched up again. "Kid might want a . . . uh . . . another adult figure of some sort in his or her life. I'm not trying to claim any rights I don't have, or trying to say you can't handle it or anything like that. But if you think you can trust me . . . I think I could help. I'll always be here for both of you."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you."

"And now that we are all nice and wet, you know what else?" He put a hand out experimentally. "I think the rain is finally stopping."

* * *

Maes raised an eyebrow when Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye piled into the cab across from Gracia and him. Both of them were rather damp, and they both looked rather pleased to be damp. After Havoc and the others had taken off, he and his wife had split up find the mysteriously absent Mustang and Hawkeye, so they could get home. Their babysitter was being paid by the hour, and they didn't want to keep her waiting all night. Finally, Gracia said she'd managed to find them on the balcony. Naturally, he'd just assumed they'd both be dry . . . but apparently, he'd been wrong.

"What the heck?" he cried. "Did you guys lose a fight with a sprinkler or something?"

Roy grinned like he'd just gotten away with something very devious and wordlessly flicked a few droplets from his bangs.

Maes looked at Gracia. She just shrugged.

"Contest of freaks," he muttered. "I've always said it, but nobody wants to believe me."

"So what does everyone think about General Bennet?" Gracia asked loudly.

"He was dull," Roy offered.

"Oh? He seemed alright too me."

"I didn't say he was bad," Roy amended. "Just dull."

They discussed the character of General Bennet until they came to Hawkeye's building because nobody had anything else to say. The cab waited on the curb while Roy went with her to escort her to her apartment.

They clambered up the stairs in silence. Hawkeye was beginning to feel quite exhausted by the evening's events, and she liked the thought of the warm, soft bed waiting for her. Her feet ached, but in a decidedly good way, and she wanted to brush out her wet hair. The only complication was the Colonel. When they finally got to her apartment, she wasn't entirely sure what to say to him.

"So . . ." She twisted her doorknob and looked at him uncertainly. "I guess this is where I say I had a nice night."

"Yeah, I, um . . ." Good Lord, was he actually stammering? "I'm glad."

"Hope you don't catch a cold after tonight," she offered lamely.

"Same goes for you."

Silence.

Roy cleared his throat. "You're not thinking about changing your mind about what you said earlier?"

"Never. You're stuck with me, Sir." She smiled ruefully. "But I guess this is it, for now I suppose."

"It's safer this way," he said.

But God if it wasn't harder. Safety seemed like a very distant concern when he was standing in front of her, and one lapse in control would be all it took . . . He was doing the noble thing, but she could see the truth in his eyes. If she closed the distance between them, he'd be the last person to fight her. It wasn't wise, but she was too tired to care, and it'd be so very easy.

No. She owed him more restraint than that. He had placed his trust in her. That was why she was his Lieutenant. She was allowed to shoot him in the back. And she was trusted not to tempt him.

"Goodnight, Sir." Somehow she made the words form on her lips.

"Goodnight, Lieutenant."

As soon as the door had closed behind her, Roy let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and raked a hand through his hair. _Damn_. He stood there lost in thought for a few moments longer, until he realized how silly he must look staring at her door. A quick glance around revealed nobody else in the hallway, but he left quickly anyway.

When he made it down the stairs, he found Hughes standing in the lobby.

"She forgot her purse in the car," he explained, holding a blue handbag out feebly. "Gracia sent me in here, but I wasn't sure if I'd be er—interrupting anything if I brought it up there. So I thought I'd wait until you came down."

"Oh," Roy took the purse absently. "I don't even remember her having it."

Hughes laughed. "No, you probably wouldn't Mr. Keeps-His-Eyes-To-Himself."

"I'll have you know, I didn't see the purse because I was purposely _not_ looking at her," Roy hissed.

"Sure. Sure. We'll be waiting in the car, so try to be quick."

Roy gave him one last scowl before he climbed the stairs again.

She didn't answer her door when he knocked. He tried several more times, but every knock was met with the same silence. He heard no noises to indicate she was even there on the other side of the door. More knocks yielded similar results. Perhaps she was taking a shower or something. Maybe he could just slip inside and place her purse on the counter.

"Hawkeye?" He tried the door and it swung inward at the slightest push. Odd that she hadn't needed her keys to open the door earlier. "Hawkeye you forgot your—"

He couldn't breathe. His lungs refused to expand. His Lieutenant was on her knees, and General Hakuro was standing over her with a gun pressed to her temple.

"Colonel Mustang, so good of you to join us."


	12. Protection

A/N: Sorry for the horrible cliffhanger. I tried not to keep you in suspense for too long. My apologies for the shortness of this chapter, and my everlasting thanks for your continued feedback. Happy February everyone!

* * *

**Chapter Eleven - Protection**

Roy Mustang was quite certain the scene before him would haunt him until the end of his days. Even years later, he would still recall in fresh detail the way the General's fingers looked clenched around the trigger, calloused and cracked like pale shoe leather. He would remember the tiny shiver in Riza's alabaster throat and the hitched cadence of her breath. The folds of the blue gown spread out around her looked like the petals of an upside-down flower. She didn't move a muscle when he stepped into the room. She held her chin high, and her hands still, but her eyes . . . he could still see the bolt of terror that flashed through them even when he closed his own.

"Now," Hakuro was calm. "Be a good boy and close the door."

He obeyed the man with the gun. Everything swam. The world was off-kilter.

He took what felt like a tottering, drunken step forward. "What are you—"

"That's close enough, Mustang," the General admonished softly and pressed the gun harder against her temple.

She looked panicked, but not for herself. "Colonel, just go."

"Are you crazy!?" he yelped. "He's got a gun on you!"

"I think she knows that Colonel," Hakuro said patiently, like he was speaking to someone with pitiable brain capacity. "For someone who loves her as much as you do, you really give her very little credit. And as to your request, Sweetheart, I'm afraid that I cannot allow the Colonel to run off now that he has joined our discussion. In fact, I think nobody ought to move an inch."

Roy and Riza stared at each other. The world shrank the size of fear reflecting on fear.

Was this how life was to end? After all of her fruitless struggling, here was the final act, and she had nothing to show for it. She hadn't seen it coming. There was no time to prepare. Every breath barely filled her mouth, and the blood sang in her ears. She didn't want to die, but she would accept it calmly, as she accepted all things she could not fight against. At point blank range, it probably wouldn't even hurt she reassured herself methodically. But she hadn't counted on Roy being there watching her when the light went out. All she could see, think, or feel was the presence of him, rooted to the spot and looking at her like his whole world was collapsing upon itself. She knew that look because she had worn it herself in Ishbal when she had seen him in his tent with the pistol. And then she understood the full horror of love.

If it came to her end, there was no hope of consolation for him. Hakuro would murder them both, whether he pulled the trigger twice or not.

She wanted to scream.

"What do you want from her?" Roy demanded without taking his eyes from hers.

"As I was already telling her before you decided to barge in, I want her pregnancy terminated," Hakuro said. "Oh yes, I know about this child that is supposedly mine. I'm not saying I believe such complete and utter nonsense, but nonetheless, I will not suffer these accusations. Did you honestly think I wouldn't find out about Grumman's spies tailing me?"

Neither of them could speak.

He continued, "You are planning to bring up charges, and I can tell you right now that is _not_ going to happen. This pregnancy will end."

Roy had to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep from attacking the man. "You can't just force her to do that!"

"I think you'll find that I can." Hakuro held up the heretofore unnoticed object in his other hand, and Roy recognized it as one of the pill bottles he had seen on Hawkeye's sink. "It's still early enough for this be quick and easy, and it just so happens that she has the means to do it right here in her apartment. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was like she was planning to do it anyway. Unfortunately, she seems to have lost all common sense within the span of ten minutes. She's been quite intransigent, so I'm rather glad you showed up."

"Now then, Riza," he held out the bottle beneath her nose until she took it from him. "I have leverage you _will_ be interested in. I'm sure you'd like your boyfriend to keep his face, so perhaps you will reconsider my offer."

"If you really cared about saving your own ass, you wouldn't do it," she growled with surprisingly ferocity, but her fingers were clenching and unclenching around the bottle.

"I've done all kinds of things that some would consider less than kosher, and I think you know that better than anyone," Hakuro purred. "It's easy to change the details about a dead man. Everyone knows the stories about suicidal Roy Mustang. Hell, I'd kill the both of you if I must, and in your case, Beautiful, that _would_ be a shame, but it doesn't have to be that way if you just take the damn pills. Or maybe I'll have to force them down your throat."

Anger flared up in Roy , fierce and stinging. "Do that, and I swear I'll kill you."

Hakuro didn't look at all concerned by the threat. "Those are some fine words coming from an unarmed man. Tell me, Colonel, what's it like to know that I've had what you want?" His hand dropped to her bare shoulder, and he traced a finger along her collarbone, making her visibly flinch. "Doesn't it just burn you up that she'd rather have me?"

"You son of a bitch!"

Roy was rage. Everything fell apart in rapid succession.

He moved for Hakuro in the same instant that the other man spun and turned the gun on him. Hawkeye saw both motions and screamed. And then the phone rang.

Everyone jumped. In the two seconds that both men were caught off guard, Riza made her move. She lunged for Hakuro and threw all of her weight into him, knocking him to the ground. All the air left his lungs with a sickening "oof." Before he could get his bearings, she had hiked her dress up, snatched her own gun from the ever-present holster on her thigh, and pointed it at him in one fluid motion. The General stared at her speechlessly. She hovered over him breathing hard but holding the gun steady. The phone kept ringing.

"Drop the gun," she whispered.

He did as she asked.

"Now." She narrowed her eyes. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't pull this trigger."

She watched his Adam's apple scurry along his throat like it was searching for a way out. The phone's shrill cries for attention finally ceased, and Roy was standing behind her. She didn't have to turn her head to know that. She had Hakuro pinned. Hakuro who had always held the upper hand with her. Hakuro who had made her submit to his whims. Hakuro who had been kind to her sometimes . . . her hands were shaking.

"I don't have to," he said. "You're a sharpshooter, but you're not a killer. You want everyone to think you don't care about anything, but I know who you are. You are besotted with a barely conceived child that has yet to take its first breath."

She couldn't respond. She could only stare coldly and pray that it would be enough to keep him from continuing to pick her scabs.

"Could you tell that child that you murdered the father?"

That hit her like a slap in the mouth. It wasn't fair when he said things like that.

"You . . . you don't know _anything _about me!" She grabbed the collar of his nicely pressed shirt and shook, but nothing would soothe the sudden burst of pain. "You made me . . . I didn't want . . . I told you to stop. I told you to _stop_!"

Roy couldn't bear her anguish any longer. "Hawkeye, you don't have to do this."

But she'd thrown up her walls. Not even he was allowed in. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Sir," she said flatly.

If her words hurt, he didn't show it. "I'm saying we should arrest him. Bring him to the court to deal with. Don't let him get to you."

"Yes, I'd say the boy has the right idea." Hakuro groaned and pushed himself into a sitting position. "Let's not do anything we might regret."

Even as he said the words, Roy punched him just above his left temple. Hakuro doubled over howling with pain. Riza gave him a bewildered look, but he only shrugged.

"I don't regret that."

Hakuro pressed a hand to his head and glared darkly at him. "I will personally see to your destruction one day, Mustang."

Roy looked at him like he was little more than a disgusting substance he'd found on his boot. "Those are fine words coming from an unarmed man."

"If you think that your petty accusations frighten me, you are sadly deluded," Hakuro ground out. "Unless I'm mistaken, _you_ are the one who has struck a superior officer. _You_ are the one who was seen kissing your Lieutenant on the balcony at the ball tonight. And let's not forget, _she_ is the one who has me at gun point now. It's all highly suspicious."

"We weren't—"

Roy was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Ah yes, and here is yet another mistake you have made," Hakuro smiled,. "Assuming that I would come here without backup. Enter."

The door opened, and two officers that Roy recognized as Hakuro's usual underlings stepped into the room, guns drawn. They took in the scene with wide eyes. Hawkeye lowered her gun and backed away from the General, but his men still watched her warily.

"We heard screams, General," the man who had entered first said.

Then the second, more portly man spoke. "We'd have been here sooner, but the woman who lives next to Lieutenant Hawkeye was asking questions about the noises."

"Quite alright." Hakuro stood up and brushed himself off. "I think we are done here ."

He shot a look at Hawkeye, as if he was daring her to say otherwise. She didn't say anything. It occurred to the Colonel how out of place she looked still wearing the silky blue gown. She was too absurdly beautiful for her part in this scene. A moment ago, she had Hakuro pinned to the ground, but she didn't look capable of such a thing now. She didn't look like a killer. She never had. Hakuro was right about that part.

The General followed his underlings out but stopped in the doorway. "Oh and by the way, I know what you're keeping on her back, and the secret is starting to burn my tongue. Think about that, and think about those pills. I'd really hate for this to get ugly."

And with that, the door slammed shut. Silence reigned for a beat, until the phone started ringing again.

Roy looked at her. "Are you going to . . .?"

But she shook her head. She'd gotten to her feet, but now she was staring at the ground as if, perhaps, it had been a more comfortable place. He decided to answer her phone on the off-chance the call was important. Obviously somebody wanted to speak with her.

He held the receiver to his ear, cleared his throat, and spoke in what he hoped was a level, controlled tone. "Riza's Hawkeye's residence, can I help you?"

Riza watched his face as he listened to the voice on the line. "Oh, sorry Maes. There were some complications . . . no, it's resolved now." His eyes flicked over to meet hers. "But hey, um, I think I'm going to stick around here for a little bit. You can go on home without me, and I'll get my own cab later."

There was a pause. More speaking on the other end of the phone. She wandered over to the living area of her apartment and sank into the single sofa that dominated the space. It was an ancient heirloom from John Hawkeye's estate that was well-past its prime, but the wear and tear on the springs had made it soft and familiar, like an old pair of gloves she couldn't bring herself to part with. Even now, it still smelled like her grandfather, or perhaps it was just her imagination being sentimental.

She leaned back, pressed her stocking clad feet against cheaply made coffee table beside it, and stretched her legs until she felt the joints in her knees pop satisfyingly. And people said combat boots were torture. She wiggled her toes, now free of the horrid pair of heels she had endured all evening, and focused on the dull, spreading ache as a way to ignore Roy's eyes on her as he talked on the phone. Anything to pretend this wasn't happening.

"Everything's fine," he insisted into the receiver. "Don't worry about it."

Except everything wasn't. It was never alright, and she never had anyone who would have petted her hair and taken away the fear. She was always looking for the father who left her, even before his physical death. Roy didn't understand that sort of loneliness. Roy was too close to everything to feel the ache of standing on the outside.

"Yes . . . Thank you."

He hung up the phone, and she heard him enter the living area. "That was Hughes. Phone call earlier was him too."

She wrapped her arms around herself and gave him a trancelike nod. He seemed uncertain as to how he should proceed.

"Hawkeye?"

"I couldn't do it." She stared at her toes and tried to fight her way past shame. "Even when he threatened to kill you, I couldn't hurt . . . I'm so sorry."

"Riza." A sharp hook jerked her first name from within him. It buzzed on his tongue and lingered because he had no other words.

She'd been threatened at gunpoint, and _this_ was all she could say? How very Lieutenant Hawkeye of her.

He plunked down on the sofa beside her. "You may have just saved my life. You don't need to apologize for that."

"But I—"

He cut in. "There _wasn't_ a choice. I wouldn't have wanted to you to abort a child because of me. How can you hold yourself responsible for that?"

She shrugged and stared at her toes. He fought the impulse to pull her closer. He couldn't give her very many things, but he could give her the space she needed. They both gazed at her feet for awhile as she thought.

"I didn't know I could be so scared," she finally whispered. "I didn't even want to be a mother before. I still don't, so why do I feel this way?"

Because Love was her purpose. He'd never forgotten her words that day in Isis. "You were thinking of names."

She nodded and made a choking sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Thor is still the stupidest thing I have ever heard."

"Yeah, it kinda is."

"I wish . . ." She sniffed, and her entire body shuddered. "I wish my mother was alive."

The stress of the past few hours finally broke against her carefully constructed barriers, and she dissolved. He'd been wishing he could just take her hand, and suddenly his arms were full. It was completely unexpected, and yet it wasn't. He held her, stunned, as she began to quiver ever so slightly. She didn't make a sound, but the hot dampness on his shirt left little room for doubt. Losing and becoming a mother all at once had torn away something bright and precious, and it would never be reclaimed.

This was the funeral. This was her mourning. At last.

She poured more silent sobs into his chest. He cradled her, speechless with grief, like a child with a broken doll. She was breaking, breaking, broken, and the world would end if she could not be fixed.

She nearly cried herself sick. She clenched his shirt in her fists, and when the tears ran out they became wrenching hiccups. Every gasp raced through his nerves and seemed to whisper in the back of his skull. Mother. Child. Death. Life. Pain. Purpose. Everything always happened at the same time.

Her breathing slowed. He knew she was unwilling to look at him after what she'd just done. He knew they were never to speak of her crying in front of him again. It didn't matter to him as long as she stayed. He stroked her back and felt each breath become softer and deeper.

He sat that way for a long time, marveling at how firm and yet how surprisingly light she was. She wasn't a feathery waif of a woman, but she was delicate in a way that transcended the whipcord muscles beneath her skin. She was slender and soft and she didn't want him to want to protect her. But he did. Sometimes it was hell on earth to suppress the urge.

Hakuro had said her first name like he owned the word, and he hated the fact that the shape of it didn't quite fit in his own mouth. Hakuro could say '_Riza'_ without stopping to taste the syllables. Like the sigil on her back that would forever speak of her father's veiled cruelty, General Hakuro also owned a part of her that was ingrained much deeper than skin. It was evinced in the name he called easily to his lips and the fingers he'd carelessly placed on her neck. All her life her skin had never been her own.

But he'd seen the steel in her bones tonight. She hadn't come to terms with any of what had happened to her. That was clear enough. But she wasn't about to be possessed. Not by Hakuro. And not by him.

"_I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Sir."_

And she didn't. He didn't want to. But he couldn't stand there while she suffered. There had to be a middle ground. She'd already promised to be there when he reached the top. She'd promised to give herself, and he was a patient man, but there were more questions he had to ask. What would they be if they ever were a couple? Though he might gain the right to touch her, he didn't think that'd ever be enough. He wanted more than the body, and he didn't know how close she would let him get to what was deeper than the skin. When could her business become his own?

Sometimes he wanted a place for himself within her. Just a nook near her heart where he could curl up and be safe and remembered. Even if he was a monster, what was still human in him could move to this sheltered place inside her, and be protected from the blood and the nightmares and the hate of Ishbal. There he could be good and whole again, if only for her, and nothing would make him leave. There he could look at the world through her unashamed eyes, sample a wisp of her dreams, and pit himself against anything inside her that would hurt her.

* * *

Later, he didn't know how much later, he woke in darkness on an empty couch. His mouth tasted sour with sleep, all of his joints felt stiff from the cramped position he'd forced his body into, and the empty space beside him was still warm.

Silver light from the street outside slipped through the blinds and striped across the floor. A distant car horn sounded, and he could hear the soft patter of rain drumming on the windows. How blessedly wonderful to be inside and warm on such a night. In Riza's apartment. He could smell her all around him, but he didn't have the slightest notion what had become of the woman herself. They must have fallen asleep together, but where had she gone? She couldn't have gotten up very long ago.

Movement in the kitchen attracted his notice. Carefully, because he didn't want to be awake and he didn't want to move, he squinted around. If he tilted his head a fraction of an inch, he could see into the kitchen where she was standing at the sink. She was a pale outline in the darkness, moving so soundlessly she could have been a ghost. She didn't know she had an audience. He took his time watching her.

She'd changed out of her dress and donned some kind of indistinguishable pajamas. He could only make out the edges of her features, the perfect slope of her nose, the hard-edge of her jaw, the sensual almost-pout her lips made when nobody was watching. Her skin, her hair, the spark of moonlight in her eyes, he could have stared at her for hours, and it was a happy twist of fate that she believed he was still sound asleep.

There was a soft rattling noise. She was unscrewing the cap on a bottle of pills and trying to be quiet about it. Her hand flicked out to turn on the faucet, and then there was the shushing of water streaming over the drain. He half-expected to see her take one and put it in her mouth, half-wondered if he should stop her if she did, but then she tipped the bottle over and dumped its contents into the sink. She shook out every last pill, set the bottle aside and picked up another.

When she poured the second bottle down the drain, he understood what she was doing. He didn't need to see the labels on the bottles to know which pills they were. He could see the tight frown of concentration on her face.

At last, she turned off the water and tossed the empty bottles in the trash. It was done. She stood in the kitchen for a moment longer, staring off at something he couldn't see. Her thoughts were mysterious and far away, but he saw the hand that whispered across her abdomen for a moment. It was brief. She remembered herself almost at once, but the protectiveness in the gesture was unmistakable.

Then she was padding soundlessly into the room where he lay, pretending with all his might to be asleep. He watched her through half-slit eyes, hoping against hope . . .

She stood with her hands on her hips for awhile, having some sort of internal debate with herself. He felt her eyes on him, and he focused every thought on making his breath smooth and even. He didn't dare open his eyes wider to see if she was buying it.

There was pressure on the couch. He almost forgot to keep up his ruse of deep and easy breathing when she settled back down beside him. He felt the fabric of her pajamas on the inside of one of his wrists. It was fleecy. He liked it. Then she was reaching over his head, and he heard the clink of her placing something metal on the little end table beside the couch. Of course, he thought affectionately. Riza in her fuzzy pajamas has to sleep with a loaded handgun beside her.

Ritual completed, she sighed contentedly and snuggled herself into the place she'd been before she got up. Her scent floated up to him, and in his half-dreamy state, he smiled to himself.


	13. The Red

**Chapter Twelve – The Red**

A/N – This chapter is sad. Please just keep in mind that though there are many glaring continuity errors, my original intention was always to try to fit it into the story arc of the series, somewhat.

* * *

Roy decided he could get used to waking up beside Riza. Under better circumstances.

Hawkeye woke when he did, but she seemed rather disgruntled and non-responsive. Her toffee eyes were bleary. She could barely keep them open, so he extricated himself from the couch and let her go back to sleep. He couldn't blame her. Last night had been a hellish nightmare, and it had put many things into perspective. He had some things to do, but first he needed to shower and change his clothes.

He left her curled on the couch. One last glance at her steeled his resolve. There would be no more nights like the last one. The image of the gun pressed to her temple was still burned into his mind, and he would have no peace until he was certain such a thing would never happen again.

He went home long enough to take care of the necessities and look up an address in the military database. Then he paid the general a house call.

Hakuro lived in the wealthy section on the outskirts of the city. It was easy enough to find. The neighborhood was quiet. The large, redolent houses were protected by high iron gates and brown snarls of what would be hedges in the summer. The new snowfall on every lawn was practically undisturbed. It glittered painfully bright beneath the crisp blueness of a clear winter sky. Roy had to shade his eyes to read the house numbers on the gates.

His gloves were in his pocket, but they were probably useless with the moisture all around. The pistol at his side slapped against his hip with every step.

A child's shout carried on the wind. "Daddy, watch me!"

He followed the sound to its source. Sure enough, the numbers on the house he came to signified it as the one he had been looking for. It was a square brick affair with a nice expanse of lawn. Two children, a girl and a boy, were playing in the large snow drifts that had climbed up against the side of the garage. A man sitting in the snow with them smiled indulgently and turned to watch whatever feat they were about to perform. It was General Hakuro.

The boy was the one who had called out. He held his arms out at his side as he ran and took a flying leap into the largest drift. The girl was watching her brother with wide-eyed interest. When he completely disappeared into the snow, she scampered over to see what had become of him, but she didn't have to wait long. He emerged, grinning and bounding out of the drift, and Hakuro clapped appreciatively.

The girl was the one who saw Roy standing by the gate first. She solemnly ran over to her father, latched parasitically onto his arm, and peered shyly at him from over her father's shoulder. Hakuro turned to see what she was looking at. His face darkened.

"Daddy, who is that?" the girl demanded.

"Just someone from my work, Honey." He patted her head and extricated himself from her grasp. "And I'm afraid I'm going to have to talk to him. Why don't you and your brother go inside and see if mommy has cocoa ready yet?"

The girl gave Roy a look that clearly conveyed her disapproval, but she was not averse to the prospect of cocoa. She had something of her father's stern chin, but the rest of her features favored her mother, which in Roy's opinion was quite fortunate for the child. This child of Hakuro's was her own person, entirely separate and distinct from the parents who had produced her. She would never doubt her father's love and acknowledgement.

Would Riza's child look like her? The exact slant and shade of her eyes could never be replicated, but perhaps a son or daughter would be remarkably close. Would her child's eyes, so familiar and yet so strange, sparkle at the mention of cocoa? What would the voice sound like? Would the little hands clasp protectively around Riza's arms?

"I call the snowflake cup," she sang out before dashing for the house.

"Evie no!" The boy leapt after her. "That's my cup! Mom won't let you use it!"

The General watched them race each other to the door, both slightly encumbered by their bulky winter clothes, but both bound and determined to claim the prize. The older man could not completely mask his lopsided grin of fondness, even while he kept a wary eye on the Colonel. Roy understood all too well that he was the intruder now. He was the one Hakuro's children were being sent away from. Him and his incriminations. Hakuro's solid stance in front of his house was unmistakably defensive. Whatever messy accusations he might make had no place inside.

The last traces of the General's grin dissolved. He made his way slowly down the drive, as if he had all the time in the world. He glanced back once to make sure his children had gone inside before strolling up to the gate. He made no move to open the lock.

He peered through the wrought iron bars at the man on the other side. "So, Colonel Mustang, it has come to this."

Roy braced himself against a nipping gust of cold air. "It has come to this."

"What do you think you are going to do?" Hakuro crossed his arms and scuffed a boot against the slush-slicked path. "Have you come for revenge? To kill me perhaps?"

Oh how he wished it were that simple. What _could_ he do? All he ever wanted was to protect Hawkeye, but he would endanger her more if he handled this situation badly. His lieutenant had made it quite plain that this was her battle, and if she did not wish it, he had no right to fight for her. But she seemed content to let last night's confrontation blow over, and he simply had to do something. If he let Hakuro walk away, they could never turn their backs on him.

"Threaten her again, and I _will_." He managed to make his voice sound more controlled than he felt. "I don't think I could stop myself."

Hakuro tried to look unperturbed, but there was a subtle shift in his manner. It was as if this deathly serious threat had finally made him consider the potential of the man standing before him. He had never given much thought to Roy Mustang besides occasional annoyance. _Colonel_ Mustang was just an annoyingly privileged boy being spoon-fed promotions. The undeserving object of Riza's adoration. He had thought that was all, but somehow over the years, the meaningless obstruction standing between him and his goals had become a formidable adversary. One who was willing to kill to guard that which was most precious to him.

He contemplated him for a long moment. "You really love that girl don't you, Mustang?"

Roy said nothing. Hakuro took that as answer enough.

"I'm sorry for you," he said softly. "She is quite an Achilles heel."

Roy frowned. "You had absolutely no right to do what you did."

"You're right. I didn't," Hakuro admitted. "Probably doesn't make any difference to you, but I really never wanted to hurt her. Can't say I ever cared about hurting you, but Riza . . . I didn't want that."

Roy's icy expression didn't change. He wanted the gate open so he could seize Hakuro's throat. The general seemed to sense this because he made no move to pull back the barrier.

"You don't have to believe me, but I just wanted to tell you. I know you know about Ishbal, and I know what you think. Part of it's true. I wanted her." Hakuro paused, looked at him, and continued on hastily. "I wanted her against all my better judgment. Against integrity and reason. Surely you of all people can understand my obsession."

Roy snarled. "I could never understand forcing someone to—"

"I never forced her in Ishbal," Hakuro almost smirked. "And I can see by your expression that she has probably told you the same thing. I know that's something you don't want to accept, but you were blind to her in Ishbal. I knew she was in love with you from the start, and I also knew you had no idea."

Roy looked like he wanted to deny this, but he remained silent.

"She was a broken little thing. Her father had just died, you had gone away from her, and despite her efforts to follow you, she was still alone and desperate for solace. I may have taken advantage of the situation, but I was more than a little infatuated myself. I never wanted you to have her. I still don't. I think I've proven that I don't deserve her, but you don't either. I wanted her to forget you, but she stubbornly held to her inexplicable devotion." His expression was far away, remembering. "You can't imagine the jealousy . . . Sometimes she'd have this look in her eyes, and I would know exactly where her thoughts were."

"But all that is just history now. The war ended. Real life intruded, as it often does. I had a wife and soon I had children to look after. You took her away. It was all just as well. I've taken great strides to get over her, but things always have a way of becoming more complicated than that." Hakuro sighed and gave him an indefinable look, as if he knew a great deal more than Roy thought he knew. "She's not going to testify against me. You wouldn't be here if she was."

Anger made Roy's fingers twitch uselessly. Damn him. There was no point in arguing that one. "She wants to keep the child."

"I gathered as much," Hakuro said dryly.

"You are going to swear to me that you will never try to harm either of them," Roy hissed. "I'm not afraid to end your life if you ever hurt her again."

"Fine. Just call off Grumman's snoops." Hakuro said. "You know and I know that I could make your lives very difficult if his stupid investigation continues. Especially after that bit of fraternization at the ball. If information happens to slip, you will most certainly be separated. Your impressive track record and good standing might save you, but as your underling, she could be suspended. And then there's that beautiful fire sigil on her back . . ."

Roy glared at him. "That is blackmail."

"Yeah, sort of, but I think it could work out well for both of us. Leave me alone, and I will leave you alone." Hakuro smiled transparently. "I think we coexist so much better when we ignore each other, don't you?"

Roy recognized that Hakuro was shedding culpability, and it was coming off easily as an itchy set of clothing. He wanted him to be held accountable, but there was little he could do without starting a bloody battle. He would have relished a good fistfight, but Hakuro would not play fair.

He barely had time to think about his reputation these days. He'd done countless things in this month alone that were bound to cost him, but they were nothing compared to how completely a powerful general like Hakuro could ruin him. He wasn't naïve enough to think otherwise, and he didn't fancy starting his military career all over again. Especially after he'd come so far. But that was not to say that he wouldn't if Hakuro endangered Hawkeye again. If it came to saving her life, he'd take her and run. And heaven help anyone who tried to stop him.

"Just leave her alone," he growled through clenched teeth. "And I will think about talking to Grumman."

Hakuro's smile widened. "I'm glad we understand each other, Colonel."

* * *

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye started her day in pain. Feet, head, stomach, nerves. Her entire body was wrecked.

The Colonel left early, which was just as well, because she didn't want him to see her in such a state. And she was in no mood to discuss what needed to be discussed. He didn't say where he was going. She didn't say that she felt like she'd eaten a family of angry wild animals, and they were all trying to escape. Neither of them wanted to worry the other unnecessarily.

What she needed was to work. The mindless repetition of her daily routine was therapeutic.

She tried to bind up her frayed emotions on the range. The range had always been effective in the past. Everyone around her seemed to sense her intensity and gave her a wide berth. There was no one to talk to, not that she wanted anyone. She did not regret her propensity for isolation. She'd spent all morning clutching the toilet and retching on an empty stomach because of one little yet-to-be-born baby, and that was company enough. The two of them could be alone together.

Her stomach hurt. She hadn't been able to force down anything since her early dinner yesterday, and combined with the morning's bout of nausea she felt more than a little ill. Sometimes her head seemed swollen, and other times, the world around her appeared to float away. Only the lurid bull's-eye and the smell of her gun were distinct. From further down the range she saw her friend Rebecca wave tentatively. She tried to smile and wave back.

The pain was starting to burn now. She hesitated and clenched her teeth together. The spot just beneath her navel was on fire and spreading flaming tentacles outward. Bright oil spots of color bloomed in her vision. She had time to puzzle over this new development, and then all sense of coherency fled. She doubled over clutching her stomach, letting her rifle fall to the ground. Rebecca raced to her side.

"Riza?" She sounded panicked. "Riza, what's going on?"

She couldn't speak. Somewhere behind the pain she knew what was wrong. Perhaps she had known since that morning when the sickness had been worse than usual. In that moment she felt as if she had always known what she would lose just when she wanted it most. She'd spent a lifetime knowing and the anguish was an exquisite new ache. She didn't need to see the spreading red evidence. She clung desperately to doubt.

It was only the sharp darts of pain that forced the tears from the corners of her eyes, not loss. Loss could not happen. Just thinking such a thing was bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Her joints felt wiggly and disconnected. The ground rushed up to kiss her palms, her elbows, knees, and forehead. A sting like a whip cracking on the inside. Voices.

"Somebody get some help!" Rebecca was shouting. Had been shouting. Everything was blurry. Time stopped.

* * *

She fought her way back to consciousness.

When she woke, nothing was familiar, but she wasn't surprised to find him there. He reached out to grasp her fingers. She couldn't feel the touch.

After a few moments she recognized the white walls and fresh linen smell of the military hospital. She'd never had a reason to set foot in the building until now. She appeared to be lying on a tiny bed in a tiny room. Piercing rays of evening sun were lancing through a window. It hadn't even been a whole day.

The colonel's eyes were bright, anxious and heavy with what she already knew. "How do you feel?"

"It's gone isn't it?" she asked flatly.

His expression told her everything. "I'm sorry Riza."

She rolled over and stared listlessly at the wall. Her body had betrayed her. It had performed every demanding physical task she had ever asked of it, but this most natural and important of tasks could not be carried out. She didn't want him there. She didn't want anything.

Roy opened his mouth, reached out a hand, and then thought better of it. He could think of absolutely nothing to say. The room lapsed into another uneasy silence.

Roy sat beside her bed for a long time, but neither of them spoke. Hawkeye remained resolutely facing the wall, holding her shoulders very tense. At last he heard the deep, even sound of her sleeping. He watched the hypnotic rhythm of her breathing, and decided there was nothing more to be done. Her body needed the rest, and she didn't want to talk to him. He was almost glad. He wasn't sure what he would say.

Night fell, and he brooded as he watched her sleep. Of all the scenarios he had envisioned, this was one that he had never imagined. She'd lost the child. In a demented twist of fate, the entire pregnancy was now ridiculously easy to cover up. Only Rebecca saw her collapse, and she hadn't asked any questions. In a few days it wouldn't matter to anyone else.

It had never mattered more to him. He had wanted her not pregnant, but not like this. Never like this. He would have given up his reputation, his career, everything he had been scared of losing just to reverse the tragedy. He raked his hands through his hair. He couldn't forget the only words she had said when she regained consciousness, and the way she had said them. The memory pounded through his brain in an endless loop.

And she had barely looked at him.

At last, he pushed out his chair, and left.

* * *

_She dreamed of that sharp pain in her abdomen. The horrible despair of knowing . . ._

_She dreamt of The Red. She hadn't seen it, but she had felt it. Red was a sticky color, worse than what had happened to her in Hakuro's office. That sort of thing had happened to her before. She had the stoicism to endure the indignity. She could deal with almost anything. This left her shattered._

_The dreams went on. Hakuro stepped in, forced pills into her mouth as he caressed her face._

_"Oh Riza, my sweetheart," he was saying pityingly. "You know you didn't want this."_

But I did_. She tried to open her mouth to speak, but then she wasn't facing Hakuro anymore. The Colonel stood across from her, beautiful and dark, with eyes full of self-mockery. He was looking at her with concern. And then she realized she was holding the glass that she had held on the night when she kissed him. Alcohol._

_"You poisoned it," the Colonel murmured sadly._

_"No," she whispered and shook her head. No, it couldn't be that._

_"I'm only saying what you are thinking, Darling." The Colonel became her grandfather with accusing eyes. "How could you be so irresponsible?"_

_"No, No, Grandpa please . . ." But her words gurgled out._

_Her throat was bleeding. The red was in her mouth, and nobody was there anyway. They'd all left her, even the tiny one inside her. She was hollowed out, and fading . . ._

_. . . _

_"Hummingbirds, Riza, look how beautiful they are."_

* * *

Maes found his friend in his office the next day. He didn't look good. In fact, he looked like he was convalescing from some sort of disease. One that had removed the color from his face and hollowed out his cheeks. Roy had definitely been getting thinner. Now it looked like he wasn't sleeping either. He was hunched over his desk staring at a form in front of him, but he appeared to be lost in thought.

He shut the door behind him and strode nonchalantly up to the desk. "What's going on?"

Roy looked up and gave him a nonplussed look. "Well I was going to fill out these forms, but then you came in and blocked my light."

It was very good. If Maes didn't know his friend better, he might have been fooled by the almost effortless façade he put up.

"Please don't pull that crap with me." He put his hands on the desk and glared. "I meant what's going on with your Lieutenant."

He watched Roy smother a scowl. "She has a few days of leave. I thought it would be best to give her some time."

He sighed. "I was afraid of that."

"What? Why?" Now Roy looked genuinely puzzled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're too afraid to deal with what happened, so you've decided to push it away under the guise of 'giving her some time.'" Hughes rolled his eyes in disgust. "I never thought I'd see the day you gave her up so easily."

"She's grieving," Roy protested. "It's not my place . . . I'm not . . . I mean . . . we're not . . ."

"Like hell you're not," Hughes snorted. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you how stupid you sound."

Roy was silent for a moment.

"Maes, I wished her not pregnant," he said quietly.

"_And_ . . . ?"

"And I knew you wouldn't understand." Roy's unguarded expression retreated, and his brows knit petulantly together. "I don't really want to talk about this right now."

Now it was Hughes's turn to scowl. Not understand? He understood only too well. He'd been watching the revoltingly complicated courtship ritual between Roy and Riza for years, and he understood it better than he ever wanted to. Roy was the one who didn't understand that he could never see clearly where Riza was concerned. He had told himself he was not going to goad his friend more than was completely necessary to galvanize him, but he simply _had_ to say something to prove that he did indeed understand.

"Wishing it never happened is not the same thing as wishing for this."

"There you go with the talking again," Roy snapped.

"Because _I'm_ not afraid to talk about feelings and also not frightened of your threats," he said. "Come on, what have you been thinking about?"

Roy still wasn't quite sure if he should really delve into his thoughts here and now. He considered Hughes to check for sincerity, but his friend seemed genuinely concerned. Perhaps it couldn't hurt.

"Hakuro." He saw Hughes raise his eyebrows, but his friend didn't comment. "What kills me is that he's got two kids that worship the ground at his feet. He absolutely adores them. And yet, he's probably nothing but relieved about losing this child. How can a man who is so good to his family be so monstrous?"

"He's certainly not the first man to live two different lives. In many ways I think our personalities are simply mirrors of the people around us." Hughes shrugged and adopted his philosophical stance. "We behave differently in different company, and in many ways certain people call to mind the ways we acted in the past when we knew them. And you know as well as I do that he was never going to be the child's father."

Yes, Roy knew. He and Hawkeye were gravitating towards each other. He knew even as he tried not to think about it, that he would have had a place in the child's life. He hadn't wanted to hope, and now he knew that he had been wishing in spite of himself.

And as he looked at Hughes's somber face, another understanding began to take shape. He began to understand what his friend had lost in all of this. Maes wanted them together more than anything, not only for the sake of Roy's happiness, but for his own as well. He cherished the dream of having another couple to interact with. A couple he was already on good terms with. A couple who was intimately familiar with the military and the war, but also young and interesting. The dance had shown him that Roy and Riza could be that couple. Then he'd have Roy, Roy would have Riza, and Gracia would have female company when they did things together.

The child, of course, would play with Elysia. Elysia would boss the younger kid around, but not in a mean way, and Riza's child, especially if it was a girl, would idolize her. They'd have play dates while Riza and Gracia discussed them over tea. Sleepovers when they were older. Or maybe not if it was a boy.

Yes, somehow he knew without having to ask that all of these thoughts had stolen across Hughes's mind and evolved into complex scenarios. He couldn't even say that he minded very much. It would have been nice . . .

"I don't know, Maes," he said at last. "Everything's all screwed up."

"You're certainly not making it any better."

"Then what would you have me do?" He spread his hands helplessly and looked at the ceiling, remembering fondly when a certain piece of mistletoe had been taped there a lifetime ago. Funny how that had seemed like drama back then.

"I feel like a broken record when I say this, but I think you should talk to her," Hughes sighed. "You've got to go to each other now or it'll only get harder."

"Yeah, okay, I'll call her," Roy mumbled.

"Good. I think I've made my point." Hughes slunk toward the door. "And now I think I'm almost an hour late from my lunch break, so I should probably, you know, go back."

Roy cracked a smile.

"Good luck."

And with that, he was gone.

Roy stared at the phone on his desk. It was probably not a good idea to use the office phone for personal calls. Not that this had ever stopped Hughes. Of course, he rationalized, this could be construed as a work-related call. He was checking up on his lieutenant's health, like any concerned commanding officer ought to do. He was being quite thoughtful really. He might even sign another form while he was at it.

He didn't know what had happened after he left the hospital at 1 A.M. last night. She'd been asleep. He knew she'd be released in the morning. Physically, she was almost recovered, and even if she wasn't, he knew she'd never tolerate lying uselessly in a bed. But he didn't think she would be up to working, even though she would most certainly try. Hawkeye was the type of person who would try to come in to work with both legs broken and her hands tied, so he put in a request at the hospital for the patient to be given a day's leave, no matter what excuses she came up with. Then he'd gone to work and tried desperately not to think about her.

It was damn near impossible. He couldn't stand not knowing what was happening. Calling her would sooth his nerves.

He picked up the receiver. _"Riza, are you alright?" "Riza, I just wanted to talk to you." "Riza, I'm sorry." "Riza, I'm going mad without you."_ None of those sounded like the right way to begin this conversation. The first was a stupid question. The second was pathetic. The third was funeralesque. And the fourth—Good Lord. What if she still didn't want to talk to him? But he was dialing.

The phone rang, and kept ringing. Perhaps they hadn't released her after all. He was disappointed—and relieved.

"Hello?"

Her voice startled him out of his reverie.

"Hi—I, I wanted—I mean, this is Colonel Mustang." He smacked his palm into his face. Damn. Damn. Damn. So much for composure.

"I know that, sir."

"Of course, sorry." He took a fortifying breath. "I'm just . . . well, I'm not sure what I was going to say."

Her voice was small. "It's ok."

Relief flooded him. She was speaking, however minimally. It was hard to tell on the phone, but she also didn't seem mad about her enforced time off. "Oh. That's good. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," she said. "I think I'll be fine."

Her words made up his mind. That oft repeated lie was enough to remind him what this call was all about. It was time for the truth.

"Listen, I'm sorry I've been such a jerk," he told her. "I shouldn't have left you to deal with this alone. I don't know what I was thinking."

"I wanted space."

If only he could believe that. "Did you really, or are you just trying to make me feel better?"

"Well, I did," she tried. ". . . At first."

"And now?"

She paused. "I'm glad Hughes told you to call me."

"He didn't . . . I was . . . on my own . . ." Roy stammered ineffectually. "Fine, whatever. Would you mind if I came over after work?"

"Not at all."


	14. The Faith of a Soldier

A/N – Here it is; the last chapter and the epilogue. I'm sorry that it has been so long many of you may have thought the story was dead. Due to certain life experiences and the passage of time, I eventually lost interest in writing fanfiction. But after recently going back through my catalogue of reviews that I have received over the years, inspiration to finish this story suddenly took hold, and I ran with it. So all I can say is, it is thanks to all the dedicated reviewers and people who never gave up on this story that these chapters are here today. This is for you. And for me. And Roy and Riza. They needed some resolution. When I started this story, I was 18 and very unsure of myself as a writer. Now, I'm 25. I can't believe so much time has passed. I hope my style hasn't changed too much. And once again, thank you so much for all of the support! There are not enough words to express my gratitude.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen – The Faith of a Soldier**

"_You're doing it all wrong."_

_The black-haired boy set down his rifle and rolled his eyes when he heard the voice behind him. _

_He turned around and saw the girl standing beneath a scarred beech tree. At least he was pretty sure she was a girl, younger than him by the looks of it, and very small. She was wearing trousers, her feet were bare, and she had grass stains up to her knees. Her stance was lithe and agile, like a monkey._

"_I suppose you know how to do it better," he smirked at the little creature._

"_Well enough." She walked over to him and hefted the rifled in her hands._

_It was easily longer than one of her scrawny arms, but she studied and moved each piece with precise and delicate movements, like a musician tuning an instrument. The fall breeze stirred her short blonde hair, tossing it into her eyes. She swept it back, peered through the sight and then looked up at the clay targets he had arranged on the split-oak fence. _

_So far he hadn't managed to hit a single one. He hoped she hadn't been watching long enough to know that._

_It was the first nice day of a stormy week, and the sun was finally out, soaking all the moisture out of the leaves and grass. The air was still heavy with the cloying scent of rainfall, and the trees sprayed drops of water every time a squirrel or a bird climbed overhead. He didn't like the damp, but he didn't like being coped inside with nothing but musty old books for days on end even more. Being a newcomer, he didn't have any friends in Isis yet, and there was nothing to do, so he decided target practice might be a good way to pass the time. He didn't know he would have an audience._

"_You've got the sight set wrong. That's part of the problem." She made another dexterous adjustment that he couldn't follow. "Have you ever used a rifle before?"_

"_Yes." Not really. But he wasn't about to tell the dirty little urchin._

"_You're Roy Mustang aren't you," she said without looking up. "My father's teaching you alchemy."_

_He gawked at her. "_You're_ Professor Hawkeye's daughter."_

_He knew his new teacher supposedly had a daughter somewhere on his massive estate, but he'd never seen her before. Roy had secretly been imagining that she would be shapely and charming, like most daughters of old money—not a flat-chested stick with a boy's haircut who could handle a rifle better than him. It was a travesty, but Roy was nothing if not polite, so he tried not to look as disappointed as he felt._

"_I'm Riza." She took aim at one of the clay targets and broke it on her first shot. The kick-back from the shot knocked her flat on her back._

"_Impressive, Riza," Roy smirked down at her._

"_Still better than you. If you're learning alchemy, why are you shooting a gun, anyway?" She looked up at him. Her eyes were like no color he had ever seen before._

"_I don't know. You're a girl. Why are you shooting a gun?" he retorted._

_She glared at him, tossed the shaggy forelock of hair out of her eyes and jutted out her chin stubbornly. After a long glowering silence, he conceded with a sigh. _

"_I want to be better at more than just alchemy," he admitted. "In case I ever have to fight. I thought it best that I also be proficient with a firearm, if it ever came to that."_

_She picked herself up off the ground and scrutinized him carefully. "If it ever came to that, you wouldn't be much use. I could teach you some things, if you'd like."_

_He took his rifle back. "Thank you, but I think I'll be fine."_

"_Let's see then." She crossed her arms over her chest and motioned to the targets._

_He wouldn't back down from her challenge. If he was going to properly impress on the girl that he was older and wiser, he could not look like a coward. Roy took careful aim, skin-crawlingly aware of her watching him. This time he would not miss. He could not miss._

_He missed._

_At least she did not laugh. One corner of her mouth tipped up. And then she was gone, walking back the way she had come, toward the garden wall of the estate._

"_Let me know if you actually want to hit something one day," she called over her shoulder._

_Roy Mustang rolled his eyes again. What a maddening little thing. He didn't need a girl to help him with guns._

* * *

She answered the door on his third knock. He immediately pulled his hand back and tried not to let his dismay show on his face.

She looked so . . . small. His lieutenant always looked strong and capable, even in a dress. Her strength was a fact he didn't have to think about. He realized now that he was not adequately prepared to see the emptiness in her eyes. Or the slippers. For some reason the fact that she was wearing slippers was too much.

She studied him haltingly, and he felt those eyes wash over him, submerging him—drowning him—in accusations. Accusations she would never say, and perhaps he had made up in his head, but accusations nonetheless. His breath caught, his throat constricted, and he nearly closed the door again. This was too much.

But then she spoke. "I didn't know if you would actually come."

And she touched his hand, softly and quickly. But it was enough.

She fit easily into his arms. Not stiffly, like she might have stood if he had suddenly embraced her at work. He felt her whole body sigh and press into him. He brushed his fingers through her hair and breathed.

"Yes you did," he murmured into the hair on top of her head. "You knew it all along."

Time seemed to give up on them. For just a moment, they were the only ones not moving forward, while the rest of the world grew old and died. For just a moment, he glimpsed the entirety of existence that transcended his small reality. The world constantly marched toward chaos. Life yearning after death, and death giving way for life anew. He could never hope for permanence, not for her and not for anyone, but in the moment without time, he found the tiny margin of solace he'd been seeking without even knowing it was there. It was as thin as a fingernail, and more than he deserved after a life spent too close to death. But it was enough. It was enough that in her deepest pain, Riza did not hide her face from him. It was enough that she wanted him to put his arms around her, even if all of his comfort could never heal the wounds inside.

Only the inexorable passage of time would staunch the bleeding. And she would have scars. And he would have to live with them.

But it was enough.

"Come inside, Colonel."

"How about just for today you don't call me Colonel, or Sir," he said as he stepped into her kitchen. "How about, just for today my name is Roy? Is that too much to ask?"

"I . . . Roy . . . I want to come back to work."

He couldn't help but smile. Somehow he knew those would be her first words. "You can come back to work whenever you want, but I'd strongly advise you to take your time. Believe it or not, we can survive for a few days without our taskmaster."

She closed the door and leaned back into it, holding her arms crossed over her chest as if she might crumple in on herself. "I need to come back. I don't want anymore time to sit and think. It's worse when I'm alone."

His eyes unconsciously flicked over her abdomen. Even with that loose-fitting shirt on, he could tell her stomach was still as flat as he had ever seen it. There was no sign she had ever carried the child she had lost.

"It must have been so tiny," he whispered.

She nodded, still crumpling. "Barely bigger than a thimble. At least that's what they tell me."

"Do they know why it happened?"

"No." She shook her head. "I don't know why this matters so much to me. I didn't want it at first, but . . . it should make things . . . less complicated though. Shouldn't it?"

His eyes narrowed. "Don't even think that way. Not ever. You lost something precious to you." _Especially because I'm the one who wished it. It's my fault._

It was almost like she could read his mind. "It's my fault."

This time he could not stop himself from pulling her into his arms again. "Stop that. How could it be your fault?"

"I drank alcohol." Her voice was muffled by his shirt. "You warned me not to."

"You don't know if that had anything to do with it," he said fiercely. "Didn't the doctors say they don't know why it happened?"

"Yes but—"

"So stop it. You can't torture yourself with maybes."

He ran his fingers along the top of her back, listening to her breathing into his chest. Her shoulder blades flared out like wings every time she inhaled. He traced the shape of them, wondering if she still had the scars from the night he had burned her. The last time he had seen the sigil, the flesh was still raw and pink, glistening from fresh burns. He remembered with terrible clarity. She had been in agony for weeks afterwards, plagued by insomnia, unable lift a rifle without wincing. There were evenings when she had to excuse herself from dinner because the smell of cooked meat was too much. He caught her often, holding the heavy blue material of her uniform away from her back to ease some of the pain. He remembered there was still fresh blood on her bandages a month later. But she had never once blamed him.

He knew in Ishbal that he couldn't bear to see her back again, and he never had. But now, for some reason, he wondered what it looked like. He found the ridge of her spine, and followed it up to her collarbone, still tracing, lost in his reverie. Would this miscarriage always torture her the same way the memory of the fire sigil tortured him? Gods, he hoped not.

There had to be something else he could focus on.

"Have you had anything to eat?" he asked her.

"I had a piece of toast this morning."

"That's it?" He looked at her, but she merely shrugged.

"Well I think I'm hungry. What've you got in here?"

She didn't say anything, so he opened the nearest cabinet. A container of rolled oats, a bag of flour, some rice, and . . . .

"Cookies!" he pulled out the box shoved farthest back in the cabinet and then looked skeptically at the faded packaging. "How long have these been in here?"

She blinked at him. "Probably since I moved into this apartment."

He looked at her, looked at the box, looked at her again—looking at him with those big amber eyes. He wanted to take her face in his hands and kiss her until she stopped looking at him like that. It was a dangerous thought, so he pushed it aside.

"I'm willing to risk it," he pronounced. "Let's see how stale these are."

He pried open the taped corners of the box, pulled out a cookie and held it up to the light. It passed his visual examination, so he took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. She watched him with morbid curiosity.

"Aside from the extra crunch, it's not bad. You want one?"

She looked at the cookie he held out to her suspiciously. "I don't really like cookies that much."

"Yes you do. Nobody doesn't like cookies."

"I don't."

"And you're a liar. I've _seen_ you eat cookies."

"It'll make me fat."

"Stop being ridiculous. Eat this cookie," he commanded. "It will make me happy."

She took it from him, glared at him petulantly, and took a bite.

"See? Now why did that have to be such a fight?"

"I don't want to eat."

"Well, then it seems we are going to have a contest of wills here," he said. "Because I want very much for you to stay healthy. Do you have any milk in here?"

She blinked at him. "Milk?"

"Yes. These cookies would be good with some milk."

She shook her head. "If there is any milk, you wouldn't want it now."

"I'm going to take you out for some real food then," he declared. "Stale cookies and toast just won't do."

"Sir?"

"Stop calling me Sir and get your coat."

* * *

He had a good idea for a place he wanted to go, and it wasn't far from her apartment. Feeding her gave him something useful to do rather than picking scabs and bringing up subjects that neither of them were ready to discuss. He wanted to warm away the small brittle shell she had put on and enliven the Riza Hawkeye he had always known. He wasn't sure how to do this, but making sure she didn't starve herself was a start.

It helped to see her tie back her hair and shrug on her black trench coat. It helped to see her lace up a pair of boots and tuck a firearm at her hip. This woman with fresh grief on her face—the girl he had known—his comrade on the battlefield—they could almost be the same person.

It was almost dark outside. The last vestiges of light illuminated fat scuttling clouds, and a horned moon was just cresting the nearest rooftops. People were out riding bikes, walking dogs, having lives that did not involve death and remorse.

"You know," he remarked thoughtfully when he saw her stare wistfully after a family with a chocolate Labrador, "You might consider getting yourself a dog."

She blinked. At first he thought she was preparing to reflexively shoot down his suggestion. He saw the rebuttal forming on her lips, but then she drew them closed and seemed to consider.

"I might."

He grinned at her. It wasn't much, but her concession was a start. He liked the thought of helping her find a dog someday.

The deli was ahead on the right. The open sign flashed with garish enthusiasm in the window, but the place looked empty, save for a lanky, pock-faced youth leaning apathetically against the front counter. Roy had always liked the sandwiches served here, but he realized for the first time, what it must look like—all plastic tables and folding chairs. A few of the lights were burnt out and the walls were a mismatched pink and orange. The dilapidated look of the establishment hadn't mattered until she was with him.

She raised an eyebrow when she looked inside.

"Don't judge it on its looks," he insisted. "You have to give this place a chance. I promise the kitchen is clean."

The door chimed when he held it open and ushered her inside. He bought them two turkey and bacon sandwiches and claimed a seat for them by the window. The teenager running the register kept shooting them annoyed glances as he went about his closing duties. Roy positioned Riza in a chair where she couldn't see him.

"I come here a lot when I don't want to cook for myself," he said as he pulled out his own chair. "They really do make a mean bacon melt. Plus, it's close to you. Have you ever been here before?"

"Once, I think." She was delicately unwrapping her sandwich, folding down the paper corners with methodical precision. "I usually just make myself a package of ramen most nights."

"We'll have to make this a more regular thing then. I will not have my best lieutenant wasting away on ramen."

He took a bite. The sandwich was heavenly. In his worry over her, he hadn't even realized how hungry he was. He watched her while he tried to scarf it down with decorum. She was still carefully folding the sandwich paper, mostly staring down at her fingernails like a cat in a trance. The teenager behind the counter was turning off equipment behind the counter with all the finesse and delicacy of a herd of elephants.

"Would you like it better if I didn't talk about work?" he said after finishing a bite. "I'm not trying to pressure you about all the details of your leave."

"No, I . . . I want to come back to work." She swallowed a shaky breath. "It seems that I can now."

"Riza."

He reached out for her, but his hand stayed frozen in the air before finally dropping down to the table. She looked up at him, and the pain he saw on her face stabbed through him.

"When does it get better?" she asked.

"I don't know. This has never happened to me before. I know we've both been through all kinds of trauma. There was Ishbal . . ."

She nodded.

"Have you ever gotten over that?"

She shook her head.

"Me neither," he sighed and stared out the window. "I wish I could say it'll be alright."

She bit her lip and stared down at her sandwich. Roy decided to try speaking again.

"I didn't come over to make you talk about everything, I hope you know. I came over because I—you . . . you're—," he swallowed. _I need you._ "You are important to me. That's all this is."

She took his hand that was between them on the table. She knotted her fingers through his and looked at him gratefully.

"And I want you to know . . ." He gritted his teeth. Why was it so hard to speak with her looking at him? He turned his head, so he wouldn't have to see those eyes when he said the rest. "If you don't want to stay with me anymore, I would understand. If it reminds you too much, or if . . . you've changed your mind about me. I want you to do whatever will bring you some peace."

"You don't have to say or do anything now. I'm not looking for an answer. Hell, I just told you it's okay if you don't want to talk about it," he said ruefully. "I just wanted you to know it's alright. Whatever you do."

She nodded. "Thank you, Roy. But you know I have no choice."

He understood that much at least. He had no choice but to try and make amends for all the Ishbalan dead that still visited his dreams. She had no choice but to follow him and pick him up when he stumbled. They both had no choice but to soldier on.

They ate in silence after that. Roy was pleased to see her finish half her sandwich with ease, even though his own stomach was too tangled to eat anymore. The kid behind the counter had stopped giving them sullen glances, and was now looking discomfited by their emotional moment. He was trying to sweep the floor without looking in their direction. When he came over to turn off the open sign on the door, he practically ran past them. Roy decided he would leave an extra tip on the table.

The walk back to her apartment was too short. At some point during the evening they had reached an understanding about what was unsaid and unresolved. At least for now. For now, they could at least agree the madness was over. They still had to pick up all the little pieces and tend to their hurts, but at least it was over. There would be scars. There would be memories that would always hurt, just like memories of dusty red Ishbal. Old war wounds that acted up when the weather changed. But they had come to a tacit agreement that they would remain together.

He would keep her by his side—his lieutenant, his gun arm, his protector and his weakness. She would follow him, no matter the cost. They would be partners and companions, supporting each other until he reached his goal or they both died in the attempt.

He didn't know when he would decide it would be safe to claim her as his lover as well as his friend, but he also knew he didn't have to worry about her response when he did. She would wait, and take no other. They both knew why the sacrifice was required. As strong as their bond was now, it would only be worse if she were to share his bed and then be taken from him or killed. It would be the end of him. The waiting was a bitter pill to swallow when she was so lovely and so close, but he had given up his right to make the easy choice when he took on his burdens at Ishbal.

Considering how many times they had skirted the razor's edge, he was lucky to have this much, lucky she was alive and with him now on this street. He felt a rush of fondness and familiarity when he noticed that even now, she was being watchful of her surroundings, taking everything in with a sniper's eyes.

Maybe that was the lesson he could take away. He had been so content to let her be the watcher, trusting her eyes better than his own, and she had never once led him astray in all the time he had known her. He had grown so complacent that he had forgotten to watch out for her.

It wouldn't happen again.

He would watch for predators in the dark. Those who would hurt her would never have the chance to come near. They would never speak to her. They would never touch her. They would never have her. He now knew with intimate certainty that he could be brutal for her sake, and it terrified and calmed him to know that the part of him that needed her was savage and unyielding.

She was pointing at something.

He snapped back into the present and followed the line of her fingertip up into the night sky. "What am I looking at?"

"The first star of the evening," she said. "Make a wish."

He closed his eyes and took her hand.

Then he said very seriously, "I wish . . . that all female officers in the military had to wear tiny miniskirts."

She actually laughed. He drank in the sound.

"_All_ of them?" she asked.

"Okay, maybe just specific ones," he grinned. "And Havoc. I don't know why but I'd like to see him suffer just a little bit."

"Well I wish that never comes to pass," she responded, without missing a beat. "I don't think you'd like how much everybody would look . . . at Havoc that is."

"True," he sighed. "It would be far too much leering, and I couldn't have all those deaths on my conscience. This is why I need you Lieutenant. You are always looking out for me."

"I try."

Other stars appeared after the first. Streetlights flared to life, and the city settled down for the night. Husbands and wives put children to bed before retiring together. Lovers embraced. Widows lit their reading lamps and warmed up to their fires. Door closed and locked. Gates creaked shut. Alley cats prowled the rooftops always hungry for food and fights. He put an arm over her shoulder and pulled her against him.

The joke about the miniskirts kept her smiling all the way to the front door of her apartment, where he intended to say his farewell for the night. If they were going to keep an agreed-upon distance between them, they had to start redrawing all the boundaries that had gotten blurred.

All the same, when they got to her room, he stopped her hand on the doorknob. "What did you wish for, when you saw the star?"

"How do you know I wished for something?"

"I know."

She smiled at him and brushed her bangs out of her face so that her eyes could burn into him like an open flame. "Maybe someday I will tell you."

"I'll hold you to that," he reached up, tucked in another hair that had fallen out of place, and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Listen Riza, I'll be okay if you take as much time as you need. Just don't be gone for too long. I love . . . I love having you with me."

Her lip trembled a little, but she caught it in her teeth. She looked for a moment like she would take his hand, but she held herself back. "I love having you with me too. I promise I won't keep you waiting."

He released her then. She went inside and left him standing in the hallway, holding close to the memory of her touch and the hope that someday there wouldn't have to be a door between them in the long, cold night. He had to have faith in that.


	15. Mistletoe Reprise

A/N – Just a reminder, in case you have skipped to the last chapter of this story. I have posted the last chapter and this epilogue together, so there are actually two new installments. Other than that, I thought it might be nice to end the story where it began, on a more light-hearted note.

* * *

**Epilogue – Mistletoe Reprise**

- One Year Later -

The Fullmetal Alchemist sniggered to himself.

This was too perfect.

Falman insisted it wouldn't work. He told him that they had already done a similar prank before. Then the silver-haired officer had enumerated the various drawbacks. The Colonel wouldn't fall for it again. The Lieutenant wouldn't fall for it again. It had ended badly last time. The logistics were far too nuanced for a flawless outcome. It wasn't going to work. It was madness. It was only going to result in the crispification of everyone in the office.

But all of the protestations didn't mean Falman wasn't going to watch what Edward Elric intended to do. None of the other officers could pretend they weren't at least a little interested, so they had all allowed it with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Plus, the Colonel deserved what he got for making them work four days before Christmas. Again.

The way Edward figured, the absolute worst thing that could happen would be the Colonel burning down his own office, and possibly trying to murder him. And that would still be highly entertaining. As if that conceited human blowtorch could ever actually murder him. The best thing that could happen of course would be humiliation the Colonel could not live down. And the look on his face when the trap that he should have seen coming finally dawned on him. Oh yes. This was going to be legendary.

The fact that Hughes had money on the outcome only sweetened the deal.

The genius of Edward's plan was transmutation. Last year, Colonel Mustang's subordinates had attached a sprig of mistletoe to the ceiling above his desk with tape and banked on the fact that the Colonel wouldn't even bother looking up until they called his attention to it. This year, Edward figured the Colonel would be more on his guard and more likely to inspect his ceiling for signs of tampering.

Which was why he had cleverly inscribed a barely visible transmutation circle beneath the Colonel's chair, to be activated when he placed his pompous ass on it. The activated transmutation circle would trigger another barely visible circle on the ceiling above the desk and cause the mistletoe to appear. It was actually an impressively technical bit of alchemy, far trickier than most skilled alchemists could accomplish. And he, Edward Elric, was going to use it on a prank. Well, he and Alphonse really. Somebody had to be tall enough to reach the ceiling.

His brother clanked nervously beside him. "Don't you think he will suspect something when he sees us here?"

"He might," Edward shrugged and pointed at the other officers who were hard at work. "But they are all sworn to secrecy. And so are you if you want to keep that cat. Just act casual."

The hollow suit of armor meowed in answer.

"I'll try," Alphonse muttered. "But only because I don't want you to put Lily back in the snow."

He pulled a tiny white kitten from inside his hollow chest and cradled it close to the fearsome features of his helm. The kitten purred and rubbed its face against the armor.

Edward wanted to point out that his brother would probably have the easiest time keeping his cool because ostensibly a suit of armor could not convey emotions, but he figured Christmas was not the time to remind his brother about his lack of a face. He was still in such a good mood about the cat too.

Their first warning of the approach of their intended target was the kitten suddenly perking up and squeezing into a gap in Alphonse's armor.

Moment's later a black and white Shiba Inu came trotting into the office heralding the approach of First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. Immediately, the dog's ears perked up and zeroed in on the suit of armor that was emitting mews of distress. Tail wagging enthusiastically, he started to jump up to investigate the armor for the source of the noise and the smell. Alphonse yelped, and tried to shoo him away, but the dog would only be called off by his master.

"Black Hayate, here," she commanded.

The dog obeyed with a whine of disappointment. Hawkeye swept into the room like the spirit of law and order, not a wrinkle in her uniform, not a hair out of place. All heads visibly bent closer to their work. She scrutinized the men like a bird of prey watching for signs of weakness. When they met with her approval she greeted the Elric brothers with a warm smile and assured them the Colonel would be along shortly if they'd like to take a seat. Then she straightened her stack of papers and walked over to the Colonel's desk, Hayate trailing close to her heels.

Alphonse graciously accepted a seat, looking at Edward as plaintively as a suit of armor could look. His initial objection to the entire plan had been his liking for the Lieutenant. Eventually Edward had been able to talk him into it with the promise of a kitten, but his hesitations were still there. He didn't want to play tricks on her, especially when she smiled prettily at them. Edward rolled his eyes. There was just no helping his little brother's soft spot for women and cats.

Edward remained standing with his arms crossed. The smiles of women did not dissuade him. He was made of sterner stuff. He had a mission.

Colonel Mustang was instantly suspicious when he arrived a few minutes later and saw them. Edward was delighted to see his eyes rake warily over the ceiling before he took a single step into the room. His brow furrowed.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Are we not allowed to wish our favorite Colonel a merry Christmas?" Edward's smile was overly saccharine.

Colonel Mustang examined them both closely with narrowed eyes. "Do whatever you have planned and then get out."

"Sheesh, so harsh. It's like you don't trust me or something," Edward frowned and held up a small bag filled with wrapped presents, each no bigger than a deck of cards. "We are just distributing gifts."

The Colonel raised an eyebrow. "Is one of your _gifts_ that cat inside Alphonse? Because I don't want it."

"What, no, not Lily," Alphonse took her out and held her close. "She's mine. Ed's letting me keep her."

"Fascinating. If you cause any explosions in this office today Edward, I will kill you."

He crossed the room and sat down at his desk. Edward suppressed a malicious grin when he saw the mistletoe appear. The other officers didn't look up. Havoc started having a coughing fit and had to bury his face in his hands. A bead of sweat appeared on Fury's brow. Lily meowed.

Edward started to walk around the room distributing his small packages, which happened to actually be decks of cards, only looking at the Colonel out of the corners of his eyes. He noticed to his annoyance that Alphonse was doing rather too much looking, but luckily, the Colonel and his lieutenant were both immersed in the intricacies of an expense report, and Black Hayate was busy watching the every movement of the suit of armor with the cat in it.

When at last he approached the Colonel's desk, the two officers looked up at him in tandem—Hawkeye's face was pleasant and incurious, the Colonel's was annoyed and dismissive. Edward felt a pang of guilt for doing this to the Colonel's nicest subordinate, but it didn't last long.

"For you Colonel Mustang, I thought I might try something more creative." He let himself look up at the ceiling for the first time.

The Colonel followed his eyes up to the little white-berried plant suspended neatly in place, tied with a dainty red ribbon. Edward allowed himself a malevolent chuckle when he saw the look of naked surprise and recognition take hold on the Colonel's face. But it was short lived. He quickly pulled down his mask of composure.

"Very festive, Fullmetal. Though hardly original."

Mustang looked at Hawkeye. Her inscrutable expression betrayed nothing to Edward, but it seemed to mean something to the Colonel. He stood up in one fluid motion. Then, with an intensity of purpose that Edward had never seen before, Colonel Mustang clasped his lieutenant's wrist in one hand and drew her closer—eliciting a gasping sound he had never heard her make before—until they were face to face. From the smoldering look that passed between them, Edward had the distinct impression that everyone else in the room had faded into non-existence.

His evil grin of triumph died.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He glanced around at Mustang's subordinates, but they were all equally slack-jawed. Breda was in the middle of filling an inkwell, but it was now overflowing all over his desk. Fury's face had turned as white as a sheet, and he looked as though he might faint.

Mustang's other hand slid up the side of Hawkeye's neck, cradling her face, then the line of her jaw, pulling her mouth closer to his own . . .

"Oh. My. God."

But not even Havoc's strangled cry of utter disbelief could interrupt them. Everyone in the office was frozen between horror and anticipation. It was like looking directly at a solar eclipse, but they could not look away.

He kissed her.

Deeply.

And she responded. The unbendable Lieutenant Hawkeye allowed herself to be pulled tighter against him and dug her fingernails into the epaulettes on his shoulders when what began as a touch escalated. Quickly.

Edward wasn't an expert on kissing, but he was pretty damn sure there had to be tongue involved in what they were doing. He didn't want to think about it. But dammit all, he was thinking about it.

After what seemed like forever, they broke apart, met each other's eyes for just a moment, and then it was all over. Hawkeye smoothed her hair demurely and turned back to her expense report without a word. Her face had the faintest rosy flush, but she otherwise she was as taciturn as ever. Mustang inhaled sharply, as if pulling himself out of a trance. He smoothed his hands out on his desk, and rearranged his face into a satiated smirk that he directed at Edward.

"Thank you, Fullmetal. It was nice to have an excuse to do that."

Edward couldn't have been more stunned if the Colonel had stood up and kicked him in the head. He needed to somehow unsee the last few minutes. Bleach his eyes. Bleach his brain. Maybe drink some bleach. It was too much.

"That! That was . . . You weren't supposed to actually—" He heard himself shrieking, but somehow he couldn't seem to stop the shrillness. "Ugh. Get a room if you're going to do that."

"I was just following tradition," Mustang spread his hands. "I thought that was your general idea with the stunt."

Edward growled inarticulately. When Havoc had described last year's Christmas prank on the Colonel to him, it sounded a lot more hilarious and entertaining. The kind of hilarious and entertaining that needed to be revisited and possibly become a yearly tradition. Because it would be funny to see the Colonel splutter and bluster about rules and propriety, maybe turn the color of a tomato, and definitely lose that stupid cat-ate-the-canary smirk. The smirk was on in full force now.

Edward looked around at the other witnesses for support. Lieutenant Havoc—who had been only too thrilled with the plan this morning—appeared stuck in a catatonic trance, with his mouth hanging open, and his eyes threatening to expand out of the confines of his face. Rather like a freshly hooked salmon. Fury and Falman were similarly speechless. Fury's face was now the color of old cottage cheese, and Falman was rubbing the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Clearly, they would be no help.

Breda cleared his throat. "Hell, I'm just gonna ask because nobody else will. Is that kissing thing something you two do now?"

Mustang raised an eyebrow enigmatically. Edward thought Hawkeye should be given some sort of medal for how impassive her face remained throughout the exchange. She flipped over the page she was reading, reached down to scratch Black Hayate's head, and didn't even look up.

"It is not." Havoc seemed to have finally found his voice, but he was no less wide eyed. "People who have resolved their sexual tension do _not_ kiss like that."

"Maybe in _your_ experience," Breda muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean!?" Havoc fumed. "Just because _you've_ never gotten past second base before—"

"Hey!" Edward stomped his foot. "Could you please stop talking about this in front of my little brother?!"

"I'm _fourteen_!"

Breda ignored them both. "I have too gotten to second base before! You're problem is you just can't get past second base! It's all tits this, and boobs that. Look at me, I'm Havoc and I like busty women."

Edward knew Mustang was beside himself with joy over everything that was happening. It was unbearable to have everything backfire so spectacularly while the Colonel just sat there and watched with sardonic amusement.

"Alphonse, why don't you take Lily and play outside for awhile," he commanded. "We are surrounded by idiots in here."

"But Ed, I want to know what they're talking about. What's second base?"

"It's a baseball term." Edward was beginning to feel a vein on his temple throb. "Merry Christmas, Colonel. I hope you're happy."

"Extremely, Fullmetal."

With that Edward proceeded to haul his little brother bodily from the room, no easy feet considering his brother was a giant suit of armor that weighed as much as a refrigerator. Alphonse was also very keen on hearing the end of Breda and Havoc's argument which had devolved into a serious debate over the merits of breasts versus various other feminine attributes. It was sure to lead to all manner of uncomfortable questions later.

Where he had finally detached his brother's strong metal grip from the doorframe and relocated him into the hallway successfully, Edward poked his head back into the room. Havoc and Breda were finally settling back into their respective seats under the watchful and predatory gaze of a pistol-wielding Lieutenant Hawkeye who had prowled over to stand behind their chairs. Mustang was already immersed in a stack of papers, propping his chin on his hand and tapping his pencil impatiently.

In the newly formed silence that fell on the room, the whispered conversation between Falman and Fury was audible for the first time.

"That's true, you can't really tell if anything has changed between them," Falman was saying to the junior officer. "But still, it is an observable fact that he's been watching her backside all morning. Same as usual."

He seemed to realize only too late that nobody else was talking anymore. The sounds of office doors closing in the hallway and the faint electrical hum of the heater were the only noises. He shut his mouth and gulped. Slowly, ever so slowly, Hawkeye's amber eyes moved across the room until they rested on the Colonel who at least had the good grace not to look away. He grinned at her wolfishly.

"I know what I like, Lieutenant."

Edward decided that the look on her face was almost worth every misfortune that had come out of his bungled mistletoe caper. She couldn't seem to decide if she was angry, flattered or amused, and it resulted in the most peculiar series of facial twitches. He would cherish it always. And as for Mustang, he wouldn't let him forget that little admission either. Not ever.

He took his opportunity to exit before anyone else made another comment and rejoined the sulking suit of armor in the hallway. Alphonse was holding his kitten and brooding.

He was feeling more charitable, so he gave that cat a pat on the head. "Cheer up little brother. It wasn't a total loss."

"Is it more stuff I'm too young to know about?"

"Nah, I think I'll tell you about it, so you can ask the Colonel questions later. In fact, I think you should ask him to tell you about second base too," Edward chuckled. "Yeah, as long as I can be there to watch."

"Okay, but why is it funny?"

"I just is. You'll see." Edward stopped and frowned. "Although I guess I owe Hughes some money, don't I?"

He sighed as he started down the hallway, absently swinging his silver pocket watch. His brother lumbered after him, clanking with every step. How had Hughes known they would actually do it? Did he know, or was he just betting on the most interesting outcome? Whatever the case, he wasn't going to pay him today. Today he was going to think on everything he had seen and learned.

Did this mean those two were a 'couple' now? Somehow, Edward didn't think so. Havoc could be right about some things, occasionally. Of course, Havoc had called what he saw sexual tension. Edward felt more inclined to call it skin-curdling, eyeball-scaring lust that nobody asked to see. In fact, he would use those exact words if he was ever forced to endure a similar scenario again. Disgusting.

"You're supposed to _kiss_ under the mistletoe, not try to devour each other," he muttered to himself as they descended the steps outside headquarters and joined the foot-traffic on the sidewalk.

"I thought it was very nice," Alphonse chimed in. "And I think you are exaggerating what happened because the subject makes you uncomfortable. You thought he'd be too scared, because you'd be too scared if that happened to you."

Edward gaped at him for a moment.

"I should never have let you see any of that," he muttered, but he couldn't help but smile at his precocious brother. "You are corrupted."

He would never admit it out loud, but he was happy to see that the Colonel had finally acknowledged what everybody knew about his feelings for his lieutenant. It was obvious in the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her—the way his eyes became all serious and focused whenever she was talking. Even the way, he never let himself touch her for too long, as if he was afraid she might burn him. It was almost like he wasn't a complete asshole when he was with her, and that was saying something. Hawkeye was harder for Ed to interpret. In truth, women were more mysterious creatures to him. But even she might as well have been wearing a sign.

Surely, their enemies already knew, as well. Long before today.

It was a chilling thought. There were implications there that couldn't be dwelt upon. Resembol flashed in Edward's mind. _Blue eyes, like the cornflowers that grew wild in the uncultivated fields._ What would they do to her, if they wanted to hurt him?

It was hard to know what was right. If everybody already knew he loved her, and there was nothing that could reverse that, would loving her be wrong? Maybe if he acknowledged what she was, he could at least protect her. Maybe they could have moments. Maybe it would turn out to be worth it in the end. Or maybe not. Maybe claiming his weakness would be his downfall. Maybe he was risking too much.

But for now, it was as simple as a man and a woman sharing a fleeting kiss beneath an alchemized twig of poisonous white berries.

**The End**

Thank you all.


End file.
